Poole's Last Case
by Tom's Mum
Summary: A big bang, bananas and a highlighter pen keep Richard and the team on their toes. But will the relationship between Richard and Camille develop or fizzle out?
1. Chapter 1

This follows on from _One Small Step_ and is how I would like the story to end, though I'm sure it won't, alas.

Richard Poole was having a bad dream. He was desperately searching for a really good cup of tea when he was set upon by someone who was shaking him and pummelling his chest. He woke with a start, to find Camille kneeling on his bed, her hands on his shoulders shouting something at him which he could not hear.

"Richard! _Richard!" _He struggled to sit up and removed the ear plugs. "What is it? What time is it? What are you doing here? More to the point, what are you doing on my bed?"

"Oh Richard, we've been calling you for ever. Why do you sleep with those things in your ears?"

"I don't normally, but it may have escaped your notice, Detective Sergeant, that there has been a very loud party going on all night just along the beach. I thought I just might be more effective in the morning if I actually got some sleep." He looked at the alarm clock and groaned. "It's 5 am, Camille. May I know to what I owe the honour of this nocturnal visit, delightful though it is?"

"Of course, you must be the only one in Honoré who didn't hear the explosion." Richard raised his eyebrows enquiringly. " It's Martin Peverel, his yacht just blew up in the harbour. And he was on it. Blown to pieces. Dwayne and Fidel are down at the harbour with the rescue services - and half the population of the town by all accounts."

"Good God, Martin Peverel!" He got quickly out of bed. She noticed that his pajama jacket had come undone and had a brief but interesting view of his chest before he disappeared into the bathroom and began throwing on his clothes. "Do we have any preliminary indications of what caused the explosion?"

"Well, Fidel says the debris is all over the place but they have found a gas canister which has been ripped apart, so they think it may have been a gas leak. But we'll obviously have to wait for the reports to come in."

"Yes, no point in speculating at this stage. Right, I'm ready, let's go." Richard grabbed his brief case and the two officers made their way down to the quayside in the Defender. A rather sick-looking Fidel was waiting for them. "Sir", he said urgently "Mrs Peverel is waiting in the ambulance. It's awful, all that's left of him is body parts. I've never seen anything like it. She really shouldn't be here, I can't imagine what she must be going through."

Richard and Camille made their way towards the ambulance, which was parked to one side, away from the crowd of onlookers. "Ghouls" muttered Richard tersely, eyeing the jostling mass of Honorians crammed behind the emergency barriers. "Oh you really can't blame them" protested Camille "you must admit, it's pretty sensational when one of the richest men on the island gets himself blown up. It's only natural to be curious."

"Natural or not, it's still ghoulish and it doesn't make our job any easier. Just like those idiots on the opposite carriageway of a motorway who slow down to get a good view of an accident and end up causing a major traffic tailback. Oh I forgot: of course Saint Marie doesn't have motorways, does it?"

"You're ranting again. Why are you so grumpy this morning? Is it because I sat on your bed? You know I just had to get a closer look at those pyjamas!"

Richard ground his teeth in exasperation. He knew he would not get the better of this argument. Ever since they had been out to dinner together on that momentous evening he had been unsure how to treat Camille. She said she had enjoyed the evening and he had believed her at the time – not forgetting (as if he could) the kiss she had given him. But since then the old doubts had returned. He very much wanted to ask her out again but didn't want to look too eager or push his luck, so he was biding his time. In front of the others they behaved exactly as before, but when they were on their own there was no denying that the ground between them had shifted, and it made him very uneasy and even more irritable than normal. "_I am not grumpy_", he enunciated through gritted teeth, "now can we get on please?" Camille shrugged and led the way to the ambulance. In the front seat was sitting a middle aged woman, still quite attractive although clearly in some considerable distress.

"Mrs Peverel? I'm DI Richard Poole and this is Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. I'm very sorry for your loss. We will need to come and talk to you at some point but this is not the time or the place. May I suggest that you return home – there's really nothing you can do here and it must be very distressing for you."

Laura Peverel lifted her head and nodded. "I don't know why I came, really. I just felt I should be here."

"Is there anyone who can be with you, take you home?" asked Camille gently.

"Yes, my husband's driver is over there – he was at the party last night, so he actually saw the yacht go up. I just can't believe it. Martin was with us yesterday evening for dinner, and now he's gone."

Camille went in search of the driver and returned with a middle aged American, rather stocky and with close-cropped hair. He looked white and shocked. "Let me drive you home, Mrs Peverel" he said. "Yes, thank you, Matt", as he led her away.

"We'll come and see you later on today" promised Richard. "I'm afraid there are a few questions that we will have to ask."

"Yes of course."

"He seemed on very good terms with Mrs Peverel," remarked Camille as they walked back to the recovery operation, "did you see the way he put his arm round her? Quite familiar, for an employee."

"But perhaps quite natural, in the circumstances?"

"Mm, I suppose so". Camille didn't sound particularly convinced. She wondered what Richard knew about behaving naturally.

Dwayne hurried up to them, dressed in shorts and a particularly garish shirt. Richard looked visibly pained. "Dear God." "Sorry, Chief, but I haven't had a chance to get home and change. I was at the party last night. I saw it happen."

"What did you see?"

"Well, the party had been going for some time. It was a great party! Everyone singing and dancing – and drinking of course. Then Martin Peverel drove up – that's his car over there, the blue one – and went to get into his dinghy which was pulled up on the sand. But some of his employees were at the party. They saw him and called him over. I could see he didn't really want to join the party but he did just for a short while, then he got into the dinghy and made for the yacht. It must have been about 11, 11.30. That's it really, until the explosion at about 4.30. Then I rang you, Chief, and when I couldn't get an answer I rang Camille and Fidel."

"And as far as you know no-one was with him when he went out to the yacht and no-one went out there subsequently?"

"Not that I saw, Chief. Oh but that beautiful yacht, all smashed to smithereens. And Martin Peverel, of course. It's so sad."

"Yes indeed. Well, I'm not sure there's a lot more we can do here. It's going to take some time for the divers to recover all the wreckage. Keep the harbour cordoned off for the rest of the day and, Fidel, make sure you photograph all the debris before it's taken off to Guadeloupe. In the meantime I think we have all earned a drink." Richard turned to Camille. "Do you think your mother will be open yet?"

"At this time of the morning, normally no, but on a day like this I'm sure she will be."

Twenty minutes later the four officers were seated round a table at La Kaz. "It's such a tragedy" said Catherine Bordey, carefully carrying four steaming mugs of coffee to the table. "What could have caused an accident like that?"

Richard's "We don't know yet" clashed with Camille's "Probably a gas leak". "We have to wait for the forensics report from Guadeloupe" explained Richard patiently. "And as it's now Saturday morning I doubt we'll have it before Monday at the earliest."

"Poor Martin" lamented Catherine.

"Did you know him, maman?"

"Well I knew him a long time ago, when he was just starting out. In fact, I worked for him for a while, picking bananas. You were only a little girl so you probably don't remember. It was when I had just opened the bar and was struggling to pay the bills. He offered me the opportunity to make a little extra on the side and I was grateful. But then he became successful and rich and our paths didn't cross for years. But I'm sad that he's dead. He did a lot for the island, you know."

"Yes" commented Richard drily, "you can't go far on the island without coming across the Martin Peverel Foundation in one form or another – the school, the new hospital wing, the library …"

"Well at least he did some good with his money. And he was very popular – everyone liked him."

"Well at the risk of being accused of speaking ill of the dead, I have to say that I for one didn't greatly care for him."

"I didn't realise you knew him" said Camille.

"I didn't, but I'm inherently suspicious of ostentatious philanthropy."

"Oh Richard, how cynical!"

"Don't take any notice of him, maman, he's been grumpy all morning!"

"_I am NOT grumpy! _Just stating my opinion, if that is allowed?_"_

"Good morning, team. I thought I might find you here". The Commissioner drew up a chair. "A bad business", he sighed. "And a great loss to Saint Marie. I was playing golf with him only the other day."

"Yes indeed, Sir, very sad." Richard tried to sound convincing.

"Martin Peverel was a very important man on this island, Inspector, and his death will have major implications. I take it there is no doubt it was a tragic accident?"

"Well we can't be sure, Sir, until we have the post mortem and forensic reports, but it certainly looks that way. We'll be talking to the family later on today."

"Good. I'm sure I can rely on you to treat the matter with the greatest sensitivity."

Catherine sat down in the seat recently vacated by the Commissioner. "Did you enjoy your coffee?" she asked. "I put a little brandy in it, you all looked as if you needed it."

"Thank you" replied Fidel, "it was horrible down at the harbour when they were bringing in the body parts. I mean I've seen plenty of dead bodies but never one that's been blown up." Catherine put her arm round the young officer and gave him a quick hug. "Well, don't have nightmares, Fidel."

"Right," said Richard, "let's head up to the station and make a start on the paperwork. When you've written your statement, Dwayne, you can go home – you're not supposed to be on duty today anyway. Camille and I will pay Mrs Peverel a visit after lunch."

"Thanks, Chief", said Dwayne, yawning loudly. "It has been a long night!"

Several hours later Richard and Camille drew up in front of the large villa Martin Peverel had had built overlooking the Bay of Honoré. Camille looked around, taking in the extensive and well tended gardens which fell down the hill in terraces, the tennis courts and swimming pool and lastly the sprawling Colonial-style house itself. Everything smacked of money, and plenty of it. "Well, he may have been a major benefactor to the island", she commented "but he certainly didn't stint himself, did he?"

They rang the bell and a uniformed maid showed them into a tastefully and expensively furnished lounge. Laura Peverel rose to greet them. "You have a beautiful house, Mrs Peverel" said Camille admiringly. "Thank you, yes. It has been my hobby, my main occupation I suppose you could say. I've never had anything to do with the business, you see."

"I'm sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time" said Richard "but could you please tell me when you last saw your husband, what his movements were yesterday?"

"Well, he was at work all day." "On the plantation?" "On the plantation, yes, he has an office there. Then he came home at about 6 and we had a family dinner in the evening. He left at about 9.30."

"And who was present at the dinner?"

"It was just us and the children: my son Jason and my daughter Emily."

"And where did he go when he left here?"

"He said he was going straight to the boat. He was leaving very early in the morning with Philippe so he was staying on board. They were going to dive a wreck off the coast of Guadeloupe."

"Philippe?"

"Philippe Delacroix. The man who runs the Island Hoppa boats. He and Martin are – were – both keen divers."

"I see. Well, thank you very much Mrs Peverel. We'll be in touch again when there is any news." Richard stood up to leave. "Oh, just one more thing" interjected Camille. "Your husband's driver. Has he been with you long?" Richard shot her a quizzical look.

"Matt McAllister? He's been with us for a couple of years. Ex US Army. He's not really a driver – well, he is, but he's also a mechanic – looks after the cars and the boat, anything with an engine, really."

"Why are you so interested in Mr McAllister?" Richard asked, as they walked back to the Defender. "I don't know, there's something about him, the whole situation, which just doesn't seem quite right." "And you know this how?" "I just know – instinct!" she replied teasingly, as she knew it would exasperate the just-give-me-the-proven-facts Inspector. Richard sighed, pulled an oh-please face and swung himself into the driver's seat.

Arriving back at the station, they found Fidel who had finished photographing all the evidence from the explosion. "The salvage operation has been completed, Sir" he reported. "The body – or what was left of it – has been taken to Guadeloupe for the autopsy. They promised to ring the preliminary findings through as soon as they have them. The forensics report is going to take a while, though – there was so much debris."

"Well done, Fidel. There's nothing more we can do for the moment, so I think I'm off home now."

"Yes, Sir. Well, you and Camille aren't supposed to be on duty this weekend, are you – it's me today and Dwayne tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Sir!"

Camille moved closer. "Do you want some company tomorrow?" she asked softly.

"Well, er, that would be, um, nice" he stammered, caught off guard as he always was whenever she broached anything personal. "If you're not doing anything special, that is", he added quickly.

"OK, I'll pick you up at about 10." And with an airy wave she ran down the steps and into the square.

Just before 10 the following morning Camille drew up outside Richard's shack. She could see him on the veranda, talking into his mobile.

"Yes, dad, well, I have to go now. I'll talk to you again when you're back. Have a good time and drive carefully! Bye"

He pulled a face. "They're off to Royal Ascot for the week. They go every year. Dad enjoys the racing and mum always enjoys a new hat. Well, each to his own."

"Did you see them when you were back in England?"

"Yes, I managed to get down there one day. They've moved, you know, sold the London house and made a fortune. Then they bought this great barn of a place down in the Cotswolds."

"Cotswolds?"

"It's a range of hills about a hundred miles west of London. It's what many people think of as quintessentially English – you know, honey-coloured stone, pretty villages, sheep grazing in the fields."

"You should fit in well, then!"

"Not really my scene. I mean, it's very pretty but I prefer the hustle and bustle of London. Look, here's a photo. It's an old manor house – dates back to the 18th century. God only knows why they had to buy something that size." Richard held out his mobile phone.

"Very impressive! And is that your parents?" She enlarged the image. "You have your mother's eyes but I think you look more like your father!"

"God forbid!"He sighed. Talking about his parents always made him vaguely depressed.

"And what else did you do when you were in England? You never really said. Was it nice and cold?"

_No, it was grey, windy and pretty damn miserable._

"Yes it was wonderful. I felt cold again for the first time since I left."

"And did you go back to your favourite pub – what is it The White Hart? I bet you enjoyed having a drink there again."

_Actually there's a new landlord, he's turned the place into a gastro pub, the snug has gone and even the beer is different._

"Yes, yes I did. It was really great to be back there."

"I'm glad you had such a good time" she said, a little wistfully. "Well, it's a lovely day so I thought we could take the boat out to the cove round the other side of the point and have a picnic." Camille pointed triumphantly to the picnic basket she had brought.

"Isn't that a bit far to row?" asked Richard nervously. He was never very at ease on or in the water.

"No, we'll take an oar each, it won't take very long."

"But I've never done any rowing!" he protested feebly, knowing it was useless to argue.

"Didn't they teach you to row at that posh school of yours?"

"Certainly not! It wasn't Eton, you know!"

"Well it doesn't matter. It's easy. I'll show you. Come on, let's get the boat in the water."

The Roast Beef was drawn up on the sand. They dragged it to the water's edge. Richard looked doubtfully at the water lapping at the bow and hovered at the edge. "Oh just get in and I'll push the boat off" said Camille in exasperation. It really wouldn't hurt him to roll up his trousers and take his shoes and socks off, she thought, but she knew he wouldn't. She waded in and pulled the boat, with Richard perched nervously on one of the benches, as hard as she could into the water, then jumped in herself and sat down next to him.

"See, you hold the oar like this, lean forward and pull back. It's really quite easy." Richard tentatively grasped the oar and tried a stroke but ended up splattering them both with water. She leant across and guided him with her hands. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. "There, that's better. Now try and do it at the same time as me." Gradually he began to get the hang of it and they made their way slowly out round the point and into the next bay, which was a little cove bordered by some palm trees, completely isolated. As they neared the shore the Roast Beef began to ground in the shallow water. Camille leapt out and dragged the boat far enough out of the water for Richard to emerge without getting his feet wet.

They found a spot in the shade of the palm trees and sat down on the sand. Normally Richard would have sat on his jacket, but he had left both jacket and tie at home – this time without being asked. He hoped she had noticed. His handkerchief seemed hardly up to the task but it was all he had so he spread it out neatly and carefully lowered himself onto it. Camille watched him in a mixture of amusement and despair, and emptied the picnic hamper. She had gone to some trouble to pack the sort of food that she knew he liked and was pleased to see his eyes light up at the sight of the cold beef sandwiches.

"Just like England?" she queried, tilting her head to one side.

"Absolutely", he replied, munching a sandwich and waving a bottle of beer. "Except that it's about 30 degrees hotter and there's not a lot of sand in Croydon."

"Well, I'm going to have a swim", announced Camille when they had finished their lunch.

"You really shouldn't swim immediately after a meal", warned Richard "it's very bad for your digestion. You should wait at least an hour …." He tailed off, quelled by the look on her face. "Sorry", he muttered, "just trying to, you know, be helpful."

"Hm"

Suddenly the stillness of the day was disturbed by a shrill ringing sound. Richard reached for his mobile. It was Dwayne.

"Afternoon, Chief. I'm sorry to disturb you but the preliminary autopsy report is in on Martin Peverel. Yes I know, I wasn't expecting it until tomorrow either. Someone must have leant on them to do it quickly – the Commissioner, I expect. Anyway, Chief, the thing is: Martin Peverel didn't die in the explosion. He was already dead, or at least unconscious – his lungs were full of carbon monoxide. "

"Were they, indeed! Yes, thanks, Dwayne. I'll be straight in. Ring Fidel and get him to come in too."

"And shall I ring Camille as well?"

"No, no, I'll do that" said Richard hastily, ringing off. It was fortunate that he could not see the broad grin on Dwayne's face. He turned to Camille. "Get the boat in the water – we have to go back straight away. There's no doubt this was no accident – Martin Peverel was murdered! Row!"


	2. Chapter 2

"It's quite simple", explained Richard on Monday morning when the four officers were once more gathered in the station. "If Martin Peverel was already dead, or at least unconscious, who set off the explosion? Gas doesn't explode by itself. We assumed - we were meant to assume – that the gas had leaked and he had gone to light the cooker when he got up first thing, resulting in the explosion heard by the entire population of Honoré. But that can't have been the case. Someone else must have set off the explosion. Do we have the results of the toxicology tests yet, Fidel?"

"Yes, I just called them. There are traces of temazepam, nothing else, Sir."

"Temazepam. So he took sleeping pills. That would explain how he breathed in the gas without realising it. Very convenient."

"But did the killer turn the gas on or did the canister spring a leak?" asked Camille.

"Undoubtedly the former. A gas leak would be too much of a coincidence and as you know I don't believe in coincidences when it comes to a murder investigation."

"But couldn't it have been suicide, Sir? Martin Peverel was depressed for some reason, so took sleeping pills and turned on the gas to make sure he didn't wake up?"

"It's possible, Fidel, but I have to say that if I was going to commit suicide I think I'd take more than a couple of tablets. And it still doesn't explain how the gas was ignited. No, I think we're definitely looking at murder here. So: Fidel, I want you to carry out a background check on the victim, find out how healthy the business was, who his associates were. Dwayne, go up to the plantation and talk to the workers, find out what kind of boss he was. Camille, we need to speak to Mrs Peverel again, and the family. We need to establish everyone's whereabouts. We also need a motive. Come on." He jerked his head and Camille, flinging her bag over her head, followed him down the steps.

"Well, as I said, Inspector, Martin had been at the plantation since early in the morning. He came home at about 6 and joined us for a family dinner. He left at about 9.30 that evening. But I don't understand why you are asking me this again – I told you already on Saturday. Is there something wrong?" Laura Peverel looked perplexed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Peverel, but we have reason to believe that Martin's death was not an accident."

"What do you mean?" she gasped. "Surely you don't think he killed himself?"

"No, I'm afraid he was murdered."

"But that's insane! Who on earth would want to murder Martin? Everyone liked him!"

"So I understand" said Richard drily, "but nevertheless someone did."

"Can you tell us where you were on Friday night?" asked Camille. "We need to establish everyone's whereabouts" she added hastily as Laura opened her mouth to protest.

"Well, I was here. We had dinner. After dinner Martin left. I sat talking with my son and daughter for a while and then I went to bed. The next thing I knew I had a phone call to say that the boat had exploded, so I went down to the harbour."

"Can anyone verify that you were here all night?"

"Well, no, not really. But I was, I assure you."

"Who rang to tell you about the accident?" asked Camille.

"It was Matt McAllister, Martin's driver. He was at the party."

"And do you know of anyone with a reason to want Martin dead? Anyone he was on bad terms with?"

"No, no-one – although I did see him arguing with someone a day or so ago when I was at the plantation. A young man – in his twenties – wearing a red baseball cap and a Che Guevara T shirt. I've never seen him before."

"And you don't know what they were arguing about? Was it related to the business?"

"I couldn't really hear. And I really don't know anything about the business. You'd need to ask Sarah about that."

"Sarah?"

"Sarah Jarvis. Martin's chief oppo. She manages the office and the warehouse, virtually runs the business in fact. Miss Efficiency incarnate."

"Thank you, Mrs Peverel. We may have some further questions, but that's all for the moment." Richard turned to go. "By the way, did your husband often take sleeping pills?"

"No, he never did. He rarely took pills of any kind. Just indigestion tablets now and then – he had a rather sensitive stomach."

As they walked back to the Defender, Camille suddenly shot off, returning a few minutes later. "I just grabbed a few words with the maid. She confirms that Laura Peverel went to bed at about 10.30 on Friday night. She also said she thought Laura and Martin Peverel were on the verge of splitting up – apparently there were rows and they hardly spent any time together."

"A fact that Mrs Peverel conveniently omitted to mention. Good work, Camille!"

Climbing wearily at about the same time up the steps to the station in the burning heat, Dwayne called to Fidel, who was busy pinning photographs onto the whiteboard. "Hey, man, you'll never guess, I've just bumped into my cousin Marlon. He and his wife were at that new restaurant one evening a couple of weeks ago and guess who they saw having a meal together?"

"Don't tell me" exclaimed Fidel, "the Chief and Camille?"

"Yes, and he said they were as cosy as anything, chatting away all night!"

"So we did it!"

"We did, Fidel, we did. We are the love gods! One day I'll tell the Chief about our little strategy to help the relationship along, but not yet! In the meantime they have to go on pretending that nothing has happened and we have to go on pretending not to notice they are pretending!"

"I never knew matchmaking could be so complicated!" laughed Fidel. "Oh, careful, here comes the Chief."

"So", said Richard, when they were all four gathered back at the station "we have a well known businessman and philanthropist who is asphyxiated by gas and then blown up, having previously taken sleeping pills – which his wife says he never took. We've checked with the doctor – he was never prescribed Temazepam. So where did he get them and why did he take them? Fidel, what have you found out?"

"Well, Sir, Martin Peverel bought the Peverel Plantation about 30 years ago, when it was in pretty poor shape. He turned it around and now he's the biggest employer on the island. He has a warehouse where they pack the bananas and a couple of lorries to transport them to the airport. He exports mainly to France and the UK. I've looked at last year's accounts, and it all seems pretty healthy. He set up the Peverel Foundation about 10 years ago which as you know is a major benefactor to the island. I've also run the usual background checks on him and his wife, and there's nothing – not so much as a speeding fine."

"Dwayne?"

"I've talked to some of his workers, Chief, and they all say the same thing: Martin Peverel was a good employer, paid good wages, looked after his employees. No-one had a bad word to say about him. But the foreman did tell me he had heard the son was in big trouble – bit of a playboy, apparently, and addicted to the casinos, always in debt. So I made some enquiries and it seems that Jason Peverel is very well known in the casinos of the Caribbean – in fact he's been banned from several."

"Hm, interesting. Well done, Dwayne. I think it's time for a chat with young Jason, and also Matt McAllister – Camille, if you would? And Fidel, see if you can find out who benefits from Martin's death – there must be a Will somewhere. Dwayne, I want you to talk to as many of the partygoers as you can. Find out if anyone saw anything suspicious."

"I'm on it, Chief"

"What are you going to do, Sir?"

"I am going to try and puzzle out how on earth the gas became ignited. Do we have all the photographs of the debris, Fidel?"

"Yes, Sir, they are on your desk. I checked with Forensics, there's nothing to report at this stage."

"Right, off you go. We'll reconvene after lunch."

Camille found Jason Peverel lazing by the swimming pool, drink in hand. From the bottles littered around, it was clearly not the first of the day. She guessed him to be in his early twenties. He was good-looking, if you liked the dishevelled and unshaven look. Personally, she preferred something neater and smarter. He gave her a bleary and rather hostile look as she sat beside him. His eyes swept over her and rather disconcertingly she detected a distinct look of appreciative lust.

"No thanks", she said in response to the proffered bottle. "Mr Peverel, can I ask you where you were on Friday night?"

"Sure. I was here having dinner with my beloved family. Then I went on to a bar and got stinking drunk. I really don't remember anything else."

"Which bar was that? Can anyone corroborate your story?"

"The Starlight. Plenty of people must have seen me – I spent enough money there."

"And what time did you get home?"

"No idea, darling. I believe they put me in a taxi at some point."

"And when did you last see your father?"

"At dinner. He left at about 9.30 ish. Said he was going to the boat. That's it."

"And you went to the Starlight immediately afterwards?"

"No, I stayed for a while and talked to my mother and my sister. It was her 17th birthday, that's why we made the big pretence of the family dinner."

"Pretence?"

He sneered. "Oh surely someone must have told you, beautiful detective. My parents were on the point of divorcing. They were barely on speaking terms. I don't imagine my mother will miss him."

"And you? Will you miss him?"

"Not hugely. We weren't close. He didn't approve of me, you see."

"Why not?"

"Didn't approve of the lifestyle – the girls, the drink, the gambling. Oh yes, I gamble, Detective. And yes, I have gambling debts that Dad refused to pay. And no, I didn't kill him because of that. Look, my father wanted me to take over the business from him. But I wasn't interested, it's just not what I want to do in life. So we didn't exactly see eye to eye. I'm not sorry he's dead, but I didn't kill him. OK?"

"One more question. Are you sure it was 9.30 when your father left the house? We have a report that he didn't arrive down in the harbour until about 11. Any idea where he could have been in that hour and a half?"

Jason laughed unpleasantly. "No problem there. He'll have been with Sarah, his tart."

"Sarah Jarvis, the manager at the plantation?"

"That's right. Everyone knew, though we pretended we didn't. She started as his PA about 18 months ago, then gradually took over the running of just about everything, including Dad. Clever little bitch."

"Did your mother know about the affair?"

"Of course she did. It was the main reason she decided to sue for divorce. You know, take him for everything she could get."

"I see. Well, thank you, Mr Peverel, that's all for now."

"Fancy a drink later, darling, when you're off duty?"

"No thanks" she replied curtly "my boss wouldn't like it." Which he certainly wouldn't, she reflected as she pulled up outside Matt McAllister's shack. The American had his head under the bonnet of a jeep.

"Mr McAllister? I'm Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey of the Saint Marie Police. I'd like to talk to you about the death of Martin Peverel."

"Sure thing" he replied, wiping his hands on an oily rag. "What do you want to know?"

"Can you account for your movements on Friday?"

"Well, I was here for most of the day, working on the jeep. Mr Peverel didn't need me, he drove himself over to the plantation. Then in the evening I went to the party on the beach, and I was there until the explosion. Then I rang Mrs Peverel and eventually brought her back home."

"You were previously in the US Army?"

"Not the Army, I was in the Marines. 15 years. Discharged 10 years ago. I've been working for the Peverels ever since, looking after the cars and the boats."

"Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill Martin Peverel?"

"Nope, it's a mystery to me. You're quite sure it wasn't an accident?" She nodded.

"You didn't overhear anything, any angry phone calls when you were driving him?"

"I never heard anything – there's soundproof glass between the front and back of the car."

"OK, do you mind if I take a look round?"

"Be my guest. It won't take you long."

Camille conducted a quick search of the shack, then took her leave and made her way back to the station, where Richard was impatiently awaiting her return. Fidel and Dwayne were already back.

"So, what do we have? Fidel?"

"I talked to Martin's solicitor. She confirmed that Martin and Laura were divorcing. There was a lot of unpleasantness about the money – Laura claimed Martin hadn't declared all his bank accounts, that he had money hidden away somewhere. He denied it, and apparently Laura's solicitors haven't been able to find any trace. Laura is the main beneficiary of the Will, though there are bequests to Jason and Emily as well. She gets the house, business and most of the money."

"Dwayne?"

"I talked to as many of the party goers as I could find, Chief. No-one saw anything at all odd. They all saw Martin arrive, have a quick drink and then go off to the yacht. No-one saw anyone else going out to the yacht."

"Camille?"

"Well, Jason Peverel claims that after the family dinner he went to a bar and got drunk. I've checked and the bar owner confirms he was there and that he had a lot to drink. He said he had to call a taxi to take Jason home at about 12.30. Jason fancies himself as a playboy, I think. He said he wasn't on good terms with his father, who wouldn't pay his latest gambling debts, but claims he didn't kill him. But I think he would be capable of it."

"You didn't like him?"

"No, I didn't, but that doesn't make him a murderer. He also said Martin was having an affair with Sarah Jarvis, his manager at the plantation. That's why Laura was suing for divorce. He reckons that's where Martin went when he left the dinner. He clearly doesn't like Sarah much!"

"Nor does Laura Peverel, but I suppose it's understandable. And Matt McAllister?"

"Says he was at home all day working on the jeep, then at the party in the evening. Ex US Marines. I had a look round his shack, and there were women's toiletries in the bathroom. Including a bottle of Opium. Which is the perfume Laura Peverel was wearing – it's pretty distinctive and too expensive for most women on the island."

"So you think Laura and Matt are having an affair?"

"I told you he was acting in a very familiar manner down at the harbour! You see, I was right!"

"Yes, yes, all right" he muttered. He hated having to admit that her intuition was often correct. "The other outstanding question is how the gas canister exploded. I've been looking through all the photos of the evidence and see here" he pointed to one of the photos of a piece of mangled metal pinned up on the board – "this is part of the little cooker. The taps of both of the gas rings have clearly been turned on, so the cabin would have been full of gas. But there must have been a spark to ignite it. And Martin Peverel was out cold, if not dead by then. I've looked through all the photos and there doesn't seem to be … Hello, what's this? Here, does that look like part of a bullet hole?" They gathered round the photo of twisted metal. Richard got out his magnifying glass. "Yes, that's it" he cried triumphantly, "it was a bullet striking the gas canister that caused the spark that ignited the gas. Or I think so, anyway. Fidel, get on to Guadeloupe and ask the forensics team to check for a possible bullet hole."

"Yes, Sir, I'll do it right away."

"May I have a word, Inspector?" None of them had noticed the arrival of the Commissioner. Richard forced something approaching a smile. He knew from bitter experience that the Commissioner's 'words' were never just that: he was a man of (in Richard's eyes) Machiavellian cunning who worked to his own agenda – and who had twice manipulated him into staying on the island when all he wanted was to go home. "Of course, Sir." They moved aside.

"Do I understand that you are now treating the death of Martin Peverel as a murder enquiry?"

"Yes, Sir." Richard braced himself for what he was sure was going to be one of the Commissioner's more exquisite dressing downs. He opened his mouth to defend himself, trying desperately to order his wits which were rapidly deserting him. The Commissioner invariably had that effect on him: he was an imposing man who always spoke softly but to deadly effect, and had an uncanny knack of reducing the normally articulate Richard to a state of incoherence.

"Good".

Richard gaped.

"I should tell you, Inspector, that the day before the accident Martin telephoned me. He said he had discovered something disturbing but didn't wish to discuss it on the phone. He made an appointment to see me this week but of course was unable to keep it, so unfortunately I don't know what it was he wanted to tell me."

"And you didn't think to mention this before, Sir?"

"I didn't want to prejudice the investigation, Inspector. I wanted you to come to your own conclusions. But now that you have I think it is appropriate that you should know there may be a reason why Martin was killed."

"Yes, thank you, Sir".

"And what is more, he may have felt that his life was in danger. This morning I received in the post a small package, with a note from Martin. He said he was sending me the evidence for safe keeping and would explain when he saw me."

"And what was the evidence that he sent you?"

"This", and the Commissioner handed Richard a small envelope.

"A highlighter pen!" exclaimed Dwayne, following the Commissioner's departure. "How on earth could a highlighter pen be significant?"

"I haven't the remotest idea" replied Richard, "and what is more, it's pink! What sort of man carries a pink highlighter pen around with him?"

Camille opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. This was clearly one of those niggling details that the Inspector so loved to obsess over and she knew it was useless to try to reason with him.

"So," resumed Richard "we have a well known and respected businessman who has discovered 'something disturbing' (Richard used air quotation marks) which is somehow linked to a pink highlighter pen, but is conveniently blown up before he has time to speak to the police. Marvellous. Let's take a look at our suspects." They gathered round the whiteboard where Fidel had pinned a range of photographs. Richard went to pick up the pointer but found to his consternation that it was not there. He hunted around then asked "Has anyone seen the pointer?" Three innocent faces stared back at him. Richard looked decidedly miffed but decided to carry on regardless.

"Firstly the wife. On the point of divorcing Martin. Inherits virtually everything. No alibi after 10.30."

"Where did you hide it?" whispered Dwayne to Camille.

"It's in my desk."

Richard cleared his throat impatiently. "Aha!" he cried, pouncing on a ruler. "This will do!"

He tapped vigorously on the whiteboard. Camille ground her teeth in frustration.

"The son. Major gambling debts. Resented his father for not paying his debts. He has an alibi up to 1 in the morning. Could he have gone out again that night?"

Another rat-a-tat-tat. Camille pursed her lips tightly. How annoying could the man get?

"Well, I think we can disregard the daughter – she's only just 17. So now we come to the driver, Matt McAllister. He was at the party – could he have slipped away at some point? But what would be his motive?"

"I heard he is trying to set up his own business", interjected Fidel. "If he marries Laura, he would have access to all the money he needs."

"Right. But is that enough of a motive for murder? She was getting divorced anyway. Who else? Sarah Jarvis. She was having an affair with Martin. Clearly not popular with the family, but that's hardly surprising. On the face of it she has nothing to gain and everything to lose by his death."

"Laura overheard Martin arguing with a man – the man in the Che Guevara T shirt. What about him?" asked Camille, making a final grab for the ruler.

"I've seen him around" said Dwayne, "seems to have arrived on the island about a week ago."

"Well bring him in for questioning" said Richard. "Camille, with me down at the harbour."

Ten minutes later Richard was pacing up and down along the quayside. "Questions?" he invited.

"Where did the murderer fire from? And how did he turn on the gas without being seen?"

"Agreed. The boat was at least a hundred yards from the shore. That would have been quite a shot. You're a good shot - could you hit a gas canister at that distance?"

"Maybe, but with the boat bobbing about it would be difficult. And it would depend on the type of gun. But personally I can't see Laura Peverel being able to pull it off."

"No, and probably not the son either, particularly if he was inebriated. Unless he was not as drunk as he led people to believe?"

"But the driver probably could – he's ex-Marines. With or without the connivance of Laura."

"But he was at the party. Where could he have shot from? There were over a hundred people milling around. Even with a silencer it would be incredibly risky – and he may have had to shoot several times before hitting the target. And it doesn't answer the question of how the gas was switched on in the first place." Richard rubbed the sides of his head vigorously in sheer frustration. "None of it makes sense" he sighed. "What am I missing?"

"You know, there's one person we haven't talked to: Sarah Jarvis."

"You're right, Camille, I think it's time we paid her a visit. Let's get a warrant tomorrow and search the offices at the plantation at the same time. But for now, I need a drink. Let's call it a day."

Shortly afterwards Camille, Fidel and Dwayne were sitting round a table at La Kaz drinking their beers and chatting happily to Catherine. Richard had stationed himself on the terrace and was moodily stirring and re-stirring his tea.

"What is the matter with him?" Catherine nodded in the direction of the Inspector. "Is the case not going well or is he just in one of his grumpy moods?"

"Oh you know what he's like, maman, he's probably obsessing about some obscure piece of evidence."

"I can hear you, you know", he called from the terrace "but please feel free to carry on talking about me as if I didn't exist."

"Well come and join us, then. Stop being so unsociable."

Richard got up and made to move inside. He suddenly caught sight of the Commissioner across the street getting into his car and shot out of the café. "Sir, Sir" he called urgently, breaking into that strange loping gait of his that was something between a walk and a run, which always made Camille smile. The Commissioner turned.

"Inspector?"

"Um, I was wondering," Richard panted "whether, um, Interpol or SOCA had ever shown any interest in Martin Peverel's business affairs, you know, whether they had contacted you …" He trailed off under the unrelenting gaze of the Commissioner."

"No, Inspector."

"Great. No, I mean not great but, but … thank you, Sir. I just thought there might be … Er, I'd better be getting back to the others", and he backed gratefully away.

By the time he got back his tea had gone cold.


	3. Chapter 3

_I should have said in the last chapter that I am completely hopeless when it comes to matters technical and scientific, so please forgive any obvious howlers!_

The next afternoon Richard and Camille set off to interview Sarah Jarvis. It was a long, winding drive right up into the hills to reach the Peverel Plantation through endless rows of banana trees, the growing fruit hanging in heavy green clusters awaiting harvest. Perhaps it was the oppressive heat but Camille felt an unexplainable sense of menace as they finally drew up to the plantation buildings, where Sarah Jarvis was waiting for them. She was a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, smartly dressed and exuding an air of general competence and efficiency which Richard had come to recognise as rare on this most laid-back of Caribbean islands.

"How are you managing without Mr Peverel?" asked Richard.

"Well, we have to carry on, there's a business to run. It's what he would have wanted", she said sadly.

"What will happen to the business now?"

"Well, I don't know. Mrs Peverel inherits everything but she has no interest in the business and neither does her son Jason. I expect she will sell it – in fact I believe she's already had an offer."

"Who from?"

"Well, she hasn't said anything to me personally but I've heard that Philippe Delacroix is interested. He and Martin were quite friendly – in fact they were due to go diving together just before …". Her voice tailed off as she fought to control her emotions.

"Miss Jarvis, would you mind telling us where you were on Friday" interjected Camille after a respectful pause.

Sarah pulled herself together with an obvious effort, though her voice was still shaking. "Yes of course. I was here at the plantation until about 7, then I went back to my house and had some dinner."

"You live here on the plantation?"

"Yes, my house is right on top of the hill."

"And did you see Martin Peverel that evening?"

She hesitated, and gave a resigned shrug. "Well, I suppose you know already. Martin and I were a couple, we were planning to get married once his divorce came through. Yes, he came to see me that night, some time after 9, after he left the family dinner."

"And did he seem in any way disturbed or worried?"

"No, not at all. He didn't stay long because he had an early start the next morning. I just couldn't believe it when I saw the explosion."

"You saw it? You weren't asleep?"

"No, I was out on the balcony. I couldn't sleep, I often can't. I can see the bay very clearly from my house. I heard a huge bang and then a massive fireball. I knew it had to be Martin's yacht - it was the only one moored there." She dabbed at her eyes again.

"I'm sorry I have to ask" said Richard quite gently, "but can you think of anyone who would want Martin dead? A business rival, perhaps?"

"He didn't have any rivals on the island. Yes, he competed with other growers on other islands but the market for bananas is huge and he was really quite a small fish in a very large pond. You know, although he was a very rich man by the standards of Saint-Marie you really couldn't compare him to the growers on some of the bigger islands – the plantation is just too small to cause them any real problems."

"So you have no idea who could have killed him?"

"No, none at all. He wasn't on good terms with his son and in fact they had a row only the day before, but I can't believe that Jason would have done something like that. Oh I've just remembered he did have a bit of an argument with some young man – I didn't actually see him so I don't know who he was or what it was about but I did hear the young man threaten to take him to court. There was a lot of shouting and angry words but I was in the warehouse at the time so couldn't really hear."

"And did Martin mention the incident?"

"He just said he was some nutter, after money."

"Thank you, Miss Jarvis. Do you mind if we take a look around the warehouse?"

"Not at all, though there's not much to see." She led the way. "The pickers load the bananas into trucks, they come in here, and the packers then wrap the bunches in layers of straw and lay them in the crates, ready for loading on to the lorries for transportation to the airport in the morning. It's the same routine every day. Here is the office where I work and where Martin also had a desk."

Richard and Camille conducted a quick but expert search of Martin's desk, impounding the contents, including his laptop. Copies of orders and despatch notes were carefully filed in a cabinet, the accounting records meticulous. Richard nodded with approval. "Everything seems to be in immaculate order. Most impressive. Thank you." He smiled at Sarah.

"One last thing, Miss Jarvis", he said. "Do you know what Martin Peverel used a pink highlighter pen for? There don't seem to be any other highlighter pens in his desk."

She stared at him, startled. "I never saw him with any highlighter pens", she replied, "though I have one in my desk." She pulled open a drawer and showed him a yellow pen.

"Thank you, you've been most helpful. I'm sorry we had to trouble you at this difficult time."

"You liked her, didn't you?" There was an accusing tone in Camille's voice, as they walked back to the Defender.

"It's not a question of liking or not liking, Camille. I'm a detective, I have to look at the facts, keep a fair and open mind."

"You were quite gentle with her."

"Well, she was clearly very upset."

"Or a good actress. But I could see that you liked her."

"And you didn't." He was starting to get annoyed. "She is clearly an efficient woman, which in my not inconsiderable experience is a very rare thing on this island, Detective Sergeant! I appreciated her for that," he said somewhat bombastically.

"Oh, so you don't think women on Saint-Marie can be efficient! Thank you very much. How am I supposed to take that?"

"That's typical of you, Camille, if I may say so. You take everything personally. Of course I didn't mean you – you don't count" retorted Richard, digging himself in even further.

Stormy brown eyes raged at cool green ones. "So I'm not efficient and I don't count. Good. At least I know where I stand."

"Oh really, Camille, this is ridiculous. Now you're being childish."

"_You're_ calling _me_ childish? Isn't that the pan calling the kettle black?"

"The pot" he corrected automatically. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "It's the _pot_ that calls the kettle black. Old English proverb …"

"Aaarrgghh!"

"_Now_ what have I said?"

"You're just _so_ annoying when you're like this, Richard!"

"Sir to you, if you please. And you are being _very_ emotional."

"Excuse me, and what exactly is wrong with being emotional, _Sir_? I'd rather be emotional than go through life caring about nothing but scientific facts! She wrenched open the car door, got into the driving seat, slammed it shut with as much force as she could muster and started the engine. She drove a little way down the drive then abruptly stopped. She would have liked to abandon him at the plantation but knew it would be a serious breach of professional behaviour. So she waited while he caught her up.

How on earth had she allowed herself to fall for someone so totally, so utterly unsuitable, she asked herself in despair for the umpteenth time. But she had, she could no longer deny it even to herself. He was really quite hopeless. It was painful to watch him in social situations – so gauche and awkward, so totally incapable of finding the right words, such a total contrast to the confident and masterful way in which he exposed the murderer at the end of an investigation. And how could someone who kept a secret hoard of jelly babies (yes, she knew perfectly well what was in that tin) behave in quite such a pompous manner? He was so full of contradictions and there were times when she wasn't sure if she even liked him. But somehow he had got to her, and she knew that no-one had ever mattered to her more. She doubted that he would ever really care for her – that, she thought, was probably more than he was capable of. But the hope would not quite die. There were times when she had found a chink in the armour, and had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something more there than mere friendship. But there had been other – many – occasions when he had driven her to screaming point. Like now, for instance.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wheel, trying to regain enough control to face him again. She heard the gravel crunching louder and louder as he drew near. He opened the door and got in. Not a word was spoken. She put the vehicle into gear and drove off, staring rigidly ahead. "You can drop me at my house." "OK". They drove in miserable silence. "Thank you" he said punctiliously as she drew up in front of his shack. She watched him go in, biting her lip and resisting the temptation to run after him. He was right, she knew – she had been childish and over-emotional. She waited for a few minutes, but he didn't come back, so she slammed her foot on the accelerator and screeched off down the track.

Richard dropped into his usual chair and sank his head into his hands. "Well, that went well. So how was your day, Harry? Who did _you_ upset? Mrs Harry? Is there one?" The lizard blinked and continued to stare at him. "I don't know how I manage to do it. It must be sheer natural talent. Just when things were going so well. Well, it's my own fault, I should have known better than to ask her out to dinner. What did I expect?" He got up and took a beer from the fridge, pressing the bottle's coolness against his raging forehead. He hesitated. Should he ring her and apologise? He so wanted to – he couldn't bear the tension that had suddenly sprung up between them. He picked up his mobile and his finger hovered over her number. But what would he say? How would he ever find the right words? He would probably just make the situation even worse. It would be bad enough having to face her again in the morning. No, better not. He put the phone down again.

Harry was looking at him plaintively. His evening meal was long overdue. Richard hastily caught a few bugs and mashed up some mango for his little green companion. He had no appetite himself. He opened his briefcase and pulled out all the files relating to the case. He spent the next two hours reviewing all the evidence, trying to fit together the various pieces of the puzzle. But his brain just would not function properly. Camille's stony face during the long silent drive back swam before his eyes. He gave up in despair, stuffed the files back into his briefcase and picked up his book. Perhaps the history of feudalism in 12th century England would succeed in holding his attention.

"You have been reading the same page for the last ten minutes."

Shocked out of his reverie, Richard looked up. Camille was standing on the veranda with a look on her face that was part defiance, part apprehension. "I brought you these", she said, a little nervously. "I thought you might be hungry." She held out a bunch of bananas. It was clearly a peace offering.

"Yes, er, well, thanks. Look, I didn't mean to upset you but you know what I'm like …"

"I know. It was my fault. And I'm sorry. I know you do have emotions, even if you don't show them very often."

If she hadn't been so overwrought it would have amused her to see how uncomfortable that made Richard. He almost squirmed. He really couldn't handle such personal topics so changed the subject quickly. "Would you like a beer?" he offered, opening the door of the fridge. She nodded. They sat on the veranda, eating bananas and drinking beer and listening to the waves breaking gently on the shore. There was no need for words. Peace had been restored.

* * *

Arriving at the station the following morning Richard was greeted by Dwayne, who hastened to tell him that the young man in the Che Guevara T-shirt had been brought in for questioning. "His name is Jackson Freeman, a UK national", he added.

"Well, let's see what he has to say for himself."

Camille drew her chair alongside Richard's and they faced the young man across the desk. He looked to be in his late 20s and was clearly not happy at being dragged in for questioning.

"You're not from these parts, Mr Freeman. What are you doing on Saint-Marie?"

"I could say the same about you", replied Jackson. "You don't exactly look as if you belong in the Caribbean! Oh OK" he added, responding to the irritated look on Richard's face, "I'm here on holiday, looking up some long lost relations."

"And by the sound of you, you come from South London?"

"Peckham, yes."

"Why were you arguing with Martin Peverel?" asked Camille. "We have several witnesses who heard you", she added, seeing that he was about issue a denial.

Jackson Freeman sighed. "Look, I had just got a casual job in the kitchen at Pierre's restaurant and I was riding my bike home when this car came belting along and forced me right off the road into a wall. That's how I got this." He indicated his right arm, which was supported by a sling. "Broken. I won't be able to work for weeks. So how am I supposed to support myself without an income? There was a guy who witnessed the accident, said it was Martin Peverel's car, so once I had got myself fixed up at the hospital I decided to pay him a visit."

"To point out the error of his ways?" enquired Richard with heavy irony.

"Something like that, yeah. Only he kept denying that it was him. Too rich to understand that he had just destroyed my whole means of support on the island. So I said I would go to the police and report him for dangerous driving. Which I would have done if he hadn't got himself blown up first."

"I see, and you had no further contact with Mr Peverel?"

"Nope."

"OK thank you, Mr Freeman. I don't think we have any further questions at the moment."

"Did you find your family?" enquired Camille.

"Not family exactly, old family friends. But no-one seems to know them. Name of Dibble." He looked enquiringly at both Camille and Richard.

Camille shook her head. "I've never heard of anyone of that name on Saint-Marie", she said, "but the person to ask is my mother. She runs the café La Kaz and she knows everyone – and her memory is very long!"

"Thanks, I'll try her. Can I go?"

Richard nodded and Jackson sauntered out of the police station.

"Well, I think we can probably rule him out as a suspect, but I suppose we had better run some background checks on him. Ask Dwayne, would you? And also on Sarah Jarvis."

* * *

Jackson Freeman sipped his drink hopefully. "Dibble?" repeated Catherine slowly, "no I don't think there is anyone on the island called Dibble. I'm so sorry." The young man looked really disappointed.

"They must have moved away, I guess, or they're all dead. Ah well, it was worth a try." He got up to leave.

"No, wait a minute, let me try and remember. There _was_ a family called Dibble but it's such a long time ago. Let me think. Yes, they left the island – it must be 25-30 years ago. Ah! How could I be so stupid! Of course, the son is still here, but he changed his name, that's why I didn't immediately recognise it. Here, I'll write down his name and address for you." And she passed a piece of paper to Jackson, who glanced quickly at it and tucked it into his wallet with a small smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Once again Richard was dreaming deeply about that elusive cup of tea which he never quite managed to find. This time it was the shrilling of his mobile phone which disturbed him. His hand automatically reached out to grope for the source of the intrusive noise. It was still very dark. "Hello" he mumbled groggily.

"Sorry to wake you, Sir, but I'm at the plantation. I was driving past on my way home from a party and I saw a light in the warehouse. It seemed odd that anyone would be there in the middle of the night, so I left the jeep and walked up through the trees to see what was going on."

Richard was wide awake by now. "Camille" he ordered urgently, "you are not to go any further without backup. It could be dangerous."

"I can look after myself", she replied indignantly, "probably better than you!"

"That's as maybe" he replied "but I order you to call Dwayne or Fidel before you go any further." He could feel her resentment spiralling down the line in the long pause that ensued. "Can you see anything?" he asked despite himself.

"Not now, but earlier on I could see a figure moving around inside the warehouse. I'm not sure what …"

There was a thudding sound and the phone went dead. "Camille, Camille, are you all right?" called Richard frantically. "_Camille!" _No response. He had a moment of blind panic. Camille was on her own. He knew he had to get out there to help her but he felt helpless as he had no transport of his own. _Think, think. _He reached for his phone but his hands were shaking so much he could hardly find the number. The phone rang and rang. Come _on_, Dwayne. An extremely sleepy voice finally answered. Richard explained quickly. "Come and pick me up immediately", he ordered, trying to keep his voice steady. "We need to get out to the plantation - Camille is in trouble." "On my way, Chief."

Bouncing along the pot-holed roads of the island in near-total darkness at a speed highly inadvisable for a motorbike with an extremely agitated Detective Inspector in its sidecar, Richard's mind ran riot. He tried not to dwell on what might have happened to Camille but couldn't stop thinking that she could well be seriously injured or even dead. No, he wouldn't think about that possibility, it was intolerable. He firmly pushed the thought to the back of his mind, only for it to resurface again and again.

"Can't you go any faster?" he urged Dwayne as the motorbike leapt several inches in the air when they hit the latest bump. "I'm doing my best, Chief, but it's pitch black and it won't help if we crash, will it. We're nearly there. Look, there's the Defender." They roared up the drive to the plantation, screeching to a halt in front of the warehouse. Any intruder would have had plenty of warning of their arrival.

Richard jumped out of the sidecar, tossing the helmet to one side, and immediately his legs crumpled underneath him. He had underestimated the effect on his system of such a terrifying ride and felt ridiculously weak. He fought against the nausea and gradually recovered his equilibrium. Grabbing a torch he sent Dwayne in one direction and began to explore in the other, calling all the time. Finally, he heard a woman's voice responding and crashed through the undergrowth in the general direction. He soon realised that it was not Camille's voice he was following and by the time realisation dawned he stumbled across the kneeling figure of Sarah Jarvis, who was supporting the limp body of Camille in her lap. Richard rushed across, his heart racing wildly.

"Is she all right? She looks very pale."

"She has lost a bit of blood and hasn't regained consciousness yet, but I think she'll be all right."

Richard called Dwayne over. "You'd better search around and see if there is any sign of the person who hit her."

"There's no need for that", said Sarah calmly. "It was me who hit her. I'm really sorry. I saw a light on in the warehouse and came to see what was going on. No-one should have been here at this time of night. Then I saw a figure lurking in the shadows and I thought it was an intruder, so I crept up and hit her over the head with my torch. I didn't realise who it was until afterwards. I've called an ambulance."

And at that point the ambulance turned into the drive, its headlights peering nervously through the darkness. Camille, still unconscious, was loaded into the vehicle and driven away to the hospital. Richard followed in the Defender. Dwayne stayed behind to check the warehouse over, despite assurances from Sarah that she had already looked and everything was in order.

Since the moment Camille's phone had gone dead, Richard's whole body had been taut with tension and the sheer relief at finding her alive left him trembling from head to foot in pure shock. He waited for what seemed like hours in the hospital, passing the time by playing endless games of internet Sudoku on his phone, until the arrival of the house doctor with the news that Camille had regained consciousness and – apart from a sore head – appeared to be no worse the wear for her mishap. He realised guiltily that in the intensity of the moment he had completely forgotten to notify Catherine of what had happened to her daughter. With some trepidation he dialled her number, fully expecting a storm of gallic emotion, but Catherine heard the news in a surprisingly calm manner, announcing her immediate intention of setting off for the hospital to sit by her daughter's bedside. Reassured that Camille was in no danger, Richard decided to beat a tactical retreat, thus avoiding the inevitable encounter with Catherine who he would much prefer not to have to face in his current state of mind.

* * *

Later that morning Richard, Dwayne and Fidel met to review the case. "The question is" said Richard "who was in the warehouse at 3 o'clock in the morning and what were they doing? Sarah Jarvis confirmed that nothing was missing, Dwayne?"

"Yes, so it's unlikely to be a casual break-in unless Camille disturbed the intruder before he had a chance to steal anything. But I'll tell you something, Chief, there was something really funny about that warehouse. You know, most of the crates were all neatly stacked up, ready for loading onto the lorry. But one of the stacks was all over the place, looked as if it had been pulled about, and there was loose straw and several bunches of bananas just dumped in a pile for no obvious reason. I'd say someone was interrupted before he had a chance to finish what he was doing."

"You think some of the crates had been opened?"

"It's possible, Chief."

"Well, let's take a good look at the whole consignment, shall we?"

"It will be at the airport by now, Sir", Fidel chipped in. The lorries always leave at 8 am – that's why they pack the crates up the night before.

"Right, Fidel. I want you to get over to the airport, get the customs chaps to open and examine the contents of every crate and report back if you find anything."

The sergeant hurried off.

"How did you get on with the background checks on Sarah Jarvis and Jackson Freeman, Dwayne?"

"I'm still waiting to hear about Sarah – she's only been on the island for about 18 months so I've got checks being run in the UK. Jackson seems clean – got into a bit of trouble in his teens but nothing serious. Both parents are dead – his father in the July 2005 bombings in London and his mother a couple of months ago. Seems he's drifted around a bit doing casual work – restaurants, bars, that sort of thing. Nothing to indicate any connection with Martin Peverel other than what he told us."

"OK, then I think we can more or less rule him out as a suspect. Let me know when there's any information about Sarah. In the meantime, see if there is any sign yet of the forensic report from Guadeloupe. I'm going out to the house to speak to the family again."

* * *

Shown once more into the lounge at the Peverel house, Richard found Laura in close discussion with a distinguished looking man of about 50. Silvery-grey hair, a tanned complexion and a ready smile marked him out as a man who might easily turn an older woman's head, guessed Richard with a moue of distaste. He wondered if Laura's head was easily turned, then remembered the American driver.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you" he said "I can come back another time if this is inconvenient."

"Not at all" said the main in an accent that instantly identified him as French (_French! He might have known._) "I was in any case just leaving. Au revoir, Laura."

"Inspector, may I introduce Philippe Delacroix, a friend of Martin's."

"Ah yes, you were due to go diving with Mr Peverel on the day the, er, incident occurred?"

"Yes, that's right. There are a lot of wrecks in the Caribbean and they make for fascinating diving."

"Philippe is going to buy the company from me, Inspector. He has made me a very good offer. I'm sure Martin would be pleased."

"Isn't that a bit of a departure from your usual line of work, Mr Delacroix?" asked Richard. "I believe you run the Island Hoppa boats?"

"I do, yes, but you know, Inspector, we live in precarious times and it's always wise to have a second string to your bow. In a global recession tourists may stop coming to the Lesser Antilles and travelling on my boats, but I doubt people will ever stop eating bananas." His face crinkled into a broad smile.

The door crashed open. "Oh", said Jason, "I thought the police were here."

"They are. This is Inspector Poole, Jason."

"Oh. Where's the lovely Sergeant Bordey?" Jason sniggered.

"In hospital, as it happens", snapped Richard with some asperity. "She was attacked last night at the plantation."

"Oh dear" said Laura, "I do hope she wasn't badly hurt? What happened?"

"No, she'll be fine. An unfortunate case of mistaken identity, it would appear."

"So how can we help you, Inspector?" Laura Peverel asked.

"Does anyone in the family own a gun?"

"A gun? Well I certainly don't – can't stand the things – and as far as I know Martin didn't either."

"And you, Mr Peverel?"

"No, though I do belong to the rifle club. Why are you asking about guns? Dad wasn't shot, was he?"

"Just normal procedure" said Richard in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Thank you all for your help. I'd like to speak to Mrs Peverel on her own now, if I may."

Once Philippe Delacroix and Jason had left the room, Richard went straight to the point. "Mrs Peverel, in all the conversations we have had with you, you have never mentioned that you and your husband were on the point of divorce. Or that he was having an affair with Sarah Jarvis. Or, for that matter, that you yourself are having an affair with Matt McAllister. That can hardly be construed as helpful to our enquiries. Added to that, you are the person who benefits financially the most from your husband's death. That has to make you the prime suspect or at the very least an accomplice in his murder."

Laura Peverel looked appalled. "No, no, Inspector, that's not true. All right, I admit that Martin and I weren't on the best of terms but I swear I only meant to give him an uncomfortable night, not to kill him!" She became seriously distraught under Richard's unflinching gaze. "It … it was the soup. Gazpacho – except that I added red pepper to it. He couldn't eat red pepper, you see, it gave him terrible stomach pains. It was childish, I know, but I just wanted to make him suffer a little, to pay him back for the way he humiliated me with Sarah. But that's all – you _must_ believe me, I didn't kill him. And as for Matt, well, it has been pretty lonely here ever since Martin and Sarah got together, and I suppose I thought that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. But I'm not sure if Martin even realised."

"I see. Well thank you for finally telling me the truth."

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"Not at the moment, but please don't leave the island, and I'll need to take your passport." She took it from a drawer and mutely handed it over. "Thank you. Now I'd like to speak to Mr McAllister."

"By all means. I think he's out in the yard. This way please." Laura led the way into a courtyard, where the American was oiling some machinery parts. "Matt, Inspector Poole would like to speak to you" she called.

"Mr McAllister, could I ask if you possess a gun?"

The American looked surprised. "I sure do." "May I see it please?" "It's down at the shack. Do you want to give me a lift?" He pointed at the Defender. The two men climbed in and Richard drove carefully down the track to the small squat bungalow where McAllister lived. He dived inside and quickly emerged carrying a pistol. "It's all legal, I got a licence" he protested.

"I need to take that for testing" replied Richard, holding out an evidence bag. McAllister dropped the gun in the bag with some reluctance. "Where do you normally keep it?" asked Richard.

"In a drawer under the bed."

"And who else knows it is there?"

"No-one, so far as I know."

Richard thanked him, drove back to the station and handed the gun over to Fidel to send to Guadeloupe for testing. He sat back down at his desk, propped his head on his hands and tried to order his thoughts. He took a long swig of cold water, during which Camille walked in. He nearly choked.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he spluttered. "You should still be in hospital, or at least lying down at home!"

"I had to get away from my mother. You know what she's like when she thinks you're ill. I'm sure she's making a pot of chicken soup even as we speak!"

He grimaced in sympathy. Catherine's chicken soup had left an indelible mark on his psyche.

"She said you ran away as soon as you knew she was on her way to the hospital!"

It was no use denying it. "Well, er, yes, um, I suppose I did."

"I don't blame you! But thank you for rescuing me and for staying with me. It was really sweet of you."

He was overcome with confusion, shifting uneasily in his chair and staring anywhere but at Camille. The phone came to his rescue. It was Fidel, from the airport.

"Sir, we've searched all the crates and guess what! At the bottom of one of them under several layers of bananas we found packets of drugs, looks like cocaine."

"So that's it!" exclaimed Richard. "Now we know why Martin Peverel was murdered. And I bet I even know what the pink highlighter pen was for too!"

"What do you want us to do with all the crates, Sir?"

"Just hold on for the moment – I need to speak to SOCA in the UK. But photograph all the evidence first, Fidel - and make sure word of this find doesn't leak out."

"So" said Richard the following morning, pacing up and down in front of the whiteboard, "we now know why, but we don't really know how and we certainly don't know who. Someone is exporting drugs from Saint-Marie using consignments of bananas as a cover. Martin Peverel discovered this somehow and it led to his death. He was going to reveal everything to the Commissioner but was killed before he had the opportunity. You must have disturbed the murderer last night, Camille, when you turned up at the plantation. The question is, how are the drugs getting on to the island in the first place, and who can get access to the warehouse at night to hide them in the banana crates?"

"All the workers have access to the warehouse." said Camille. "We need to get a list and start checking them out."

"But would they have their own keys? They must be doing this during the night, when the building is presumably locked."

"Yes, but I don't think it would be too difficult to force one of the windows. They didn't look very robust to me. And there are keys hanging up just inside the front door of the house" said Camille. "I bet the warehouse key is one of them, so anyone from the house could borrow it."

"Right, Dwayne and Fidel – background checks on all the workers, please. See if any of them has any past history with drugs."

"Right, Sir", and Fidel withdrew to the back of the office and immediately set to work drawing up lists of the employees. "Dwayne, do you want to do the ones who work in the plantation and I'll take the ones who work in the warehouse?" There was no response from the older officer, who was staring out of the window and appeared not to have heard him. He tried again, touching him on the shoulder: "Dwayne? Are you all right? You're not your usual self today."

"Yes, I'm fine" said Dwayne shortly. "Just a bit tired. Got a lot on my mind. Now what are we supposed to be doing?"

"Background checks on all the workers. Didn't you hear what the Chief said?"

"Not really. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere."

"What's the matter, man? Something's clearly wrong. You want to tell uncle Fidel about it?"

Dwayne looked at the younger officer for some time, as if trying to make up his mind. Then he drew a deep breath and spoke.

* * *

"The question remains" said Richard to Camille pensively, a little later that morning "how do the drugs get to Saint-Marie in the first place? I feel sure that if we can find out how they get here we'll find our murderer. Presumably they originate in South America?"

"I would think so. Perhaps they come in on a boat?" offered Camille. "There are always dozens of yachts coming and going in the harbour. Perhaps Martin Peverel's yacht was used to bring the drugs in and that's how he discovered what was going on?"

"Yes, it's possible. But equally it could be via the airport. The island imports plenty of goods and customs inspections are not always very thorough – or maybe someone was paid to look the other way?"

"I'll check with Interpol to see if they have any ongoing enquiries in the area."

"Good idea."

"Oh and by the way, Ballistics rang to say that Matt McAllister's gun hadn't been fired recently. So that lets him off the hook – unless he has another gun."

Richard banged his head against his desk. "None of the leads lead anywhere!" he complained. "There has to be something to link all the pieces of the puzzle together."

"And I think we may have found it!" exclaimed Fidel. "Look at this! It's just come in." He raced excitedly over to Richard's desk with a piece of paper in his hand.

Camille leant over and they read the printout together. "So that's it!" cried Richard in relief. "That's the link. That means – now let me see how it was done." He paced up and down, thinking hard.

"He's staring at the whiteboard again", whispered Fidel.

"Sssh" admonished Camille "it's a good sign!"

A few minutes passed, then Richard let out a triumphant yell. "Yes, yes, _of course._"

"Do you have it?" asked Camille anxiously.

"Yes I think so, listen", and he told them exactly how he thought the crime had been committed. You had to admit, thought Dwayne, despite all his funny ways, the man was brilliant. "Now I have one further job for you, Dwayne, and Camille – I want you to get on to Interpol. Fidel, please gather everyone together at the warehouse at 4 o'clock this afternoon. We have a murderer to arrest."


	5. Chapter 5

Richard looked confidently around the room. He enjoyed occasions like these. Once he had finally cracked the case it gave him some satisfaction to explain exactly what had happened in front of everyone involved and then eventually to make the arrest. The whole procedure had become something of a ritual. It was not really a matter of personal vanity – although the congratulations he frequently received were naturally not unwelcome; he just liked to see everything tidied neatly away and the little details that so worried him all tied up. In social occasions he felt like a tongue-tied idiot, but give him a room full of suspects and he would speak with fluency, confidence and commitment.

They had all assembled in the warehouse: Laura, Jason, Philippe, Matt, Sarah and Jackson, plus the four members of the police team and the Commissioner.

Richard began. "Thank you for coming. I chose the warehouse as it is central to the murder of Martin Peverel. You see, Martin Peverel discovered somehow that his company was being used to smuggle drugs into the UK and France." Several jaws dropped open.

"Yes, and he was about to reveal all he knew to the Commissioner, which is why he was murdered", added Camille.

"You see, every morning a new consignment of bananas leaves for the airport. Except that one of the crates – and only one – in each lorry has packets of cocaine concealed under the bananas. With so many crates in each lorry, it was obvious that Customs would make only a token check at best and the chances of them finding the one contaminated crate were extremely small, especially as it was invariably well hidden in the pile. We stopped and searched this morning's consignment. We found the crate in question, but Interpol have asked us to let it continue its journey, so they can trace the network at the other end. You know, one of the most puzzling things about this case was the pink highlighter pen which Martin sent to the Commissioner as evidence. But once we had realised that one of the crates contained drugs, its purpose became obvious. Fidel?"

"The crate which contained the drugs was marked with a small pink dot in the corner of the label. You would never have noticed it if you weren't looking for it, but of course someone involved in the unloading of the consignment in Europe would have been looking for it and would have removed the drugs when it was safe to do so."

"Quite so. So several questions remained: who was running the operation in the warehouse, where were the drugs coming from and how exactly was Martin Peverel killed. The last question was particularly perplexing. We were meant to assume that his death was a tragic accident – the gas canister in the cooker had leaked and exploded when Martin got up in the morning to make himself breakfast. But as soon as the pathologist revealed that Martin's lungs were full of carbon monoxide and that he was dead – or at least unconscious – at the time of the explosion, we realised of course that his death could not have been accidental. In fact, both taps on the cooker were turned on and Forensics have confirmed that the gas was ignited by a gunshot striking a spark when it hit the canister. Which led to the second puzzling aspect of this case: how could someone have fired a shot without anyone from the party that was going on a short distance away seeing or hearing anything, and how were the gas taps turned on?

There was no shortage of potential suspects: the wife, humiliated by her husband's affair with a younger woman, and who inherits virtually all his fortune. The son, whose gambling debts his father refused to pay. The driver, who badly needs money in order to set up his own business. The young man with whom he had an argument over money. But it soon became obvious that the key to solving Martin Peverel's murder lay with identifying who exactly was behind the drugs trafficking, who was hiding the packets of drugs in the crates of bananas. Plenty of people could have had access to this warehouse – all the workers, for example, and there was a key hanging up in the house which anyone could have taken. I don't believe Martin himself knew who was responsible – or he wouldn't have told you what he had discovered, would he, Sarah?"

Six pairs of eyes swivelled to the Office Manager. "Me? What has it got to do with me? I didn't kill Martin! Why would I, we were going to be married!" she protested vehemently.

"Quite right, you didn't actually kill Mr Peverel. But you were certainly complicit. And as for marrying him, well, you might have gone through a ceremony but it would have been a sham, wouldn't it, since you are already married and the law does not permit you to be married to two people at the same time!" Richard held up a piece of paper. "We had some difficulty making the connection between the importing of the drugs and the smuggling operation into Europe. Until one of the background checks we carried out on you back in the UK unearthed the surprising fact that on 21 July 2011 you were married at Marylebone Register Office, London, to a French national – one Philippe Delacroix." There was a definite stir in the room.

"At that point all the pieces fell neatly into place. Mr Delacroix operates a fleet of passenger ferries which go from island to island through the Lesser Antilles, starting not far off the coast of Venezuela. What could be easier than a night-time meeting with a discreet fishing vessel, the drugs hidden in secret compartments and kept safely until the boat reaches Saint-Marie?"

Camille took up the narrative, as Philippe Delacroix opened his mouth indignantly. "Don't bother denying it, Mr Delacroix. We spoke to Interpol and they are even now boarding one of your ferries. I am sure the drugs are well hidden but equally sure that the sniffer dogs will find them."

"Once the ferry arrived in Saint-Marie the drugs were passed to Sarah", Richard continued. He turned to Jackson. "When you were knocked off your bike, Jackson, it wasn't Martin Peverel driving the car, it was Sarah – and the reason she didn't stop was that she had the latest consignment of drugs in the car. So Martin was actually right when he denied all knowledge of the accident. And it was clearly Sarah whom Sergeant Bordey disturbed last night here in the warehouse, not the intruder she pretended to have seen."

"But what about Martin's death, Inspector?" asked Laura Peverel.

"Ah yes. Well, I believe Martin confided his discovery to Sarah. She would have been the last person he would have suspected. But as soon as he told her he had made an appointment to see the Commissioner his fate was sealed. I believe the original plan was to go through with the fake wedding, then some time afterwards Martin would have had a convenient accident, leaving Sarah in full charge of the business. But Martin's discovery changed everything and she and her husband knew they had to act quickly. Probably the original idea was to shoot Martin during the night while he was on his yacht. But then fate – in the form of red pepper – took a hand. Mrs Peverel, in a rather petty attempt to punish Martin for humiliating her with Sarah – doctored the soup that he ate that night at dinner. She knew that red pepper gave him chronic indigestion and decided that at the very least he should have an extremely uncomfortable night. My guess is that when Martin arrived at Sarah's house that night he was suffering quite badly and asked her for some indigestion tablets." He turned to face Sarah. "You saw your opportunity, didn't you, and instead of indigestion tablets you gave him Temazepam."

"We've checked" interjected Camille. "Your doctor regularly prescribes them for you."

"Yes, and you told us yourself that you frequently can't sleep, so it was probable that you would have some sleeping pills to hand. You knew that once Martin had taken the pills he would be unlikely to wake up when someone boarded his boat."

Laura Peverel held a horrified hand to her mouth. "It was my fault that he died", she cried.

"No, not at all, please don't distress yourself," said Richard calmly. "Martin would have died anyway. You merely gave them the opportunity of making it look like an accident. So now we come to the actual murder, which was of course carried out by you, Mr Delacroix. I have to admit that it puzzled me greatly how someone could have set off the explosion. Firing from the shore was a very difficult shot, something that perhaps only someone with serious weapons training could have pulled off. That made us think of Mr McAllister. But his gun had not been fired recently. And in any case, someone would have had to board the boat in order to switch on the gas. But it was a moonlight night and there was a hundred people partying close by on the beach, none of whom saw or heard a thing. And then it came to me: last weekend I went for a row in a boat. We rowed right round the point into a little cove on the other side. And that's what you did, isn't it? You're a diver, after all. When Sarah told you she had drugged Martin Peverel, you waited an hour or so, then went to the cove in the next bay, you changed into your diving gear, you put the gun (what drug runner doesn't have a gun?) into a waterproof container and you swam underwater, only surfacing when you reached Martin's yacht. That's why no-one saw you. You checked that Martin was soundly asleep before closing all the windows and opening the door into the little galley. Then you switched on the gas, got back into the water and waited for the gas to fill the compartment. After a while, and making sure you were at a safe distance, you fired the shot, using a silencer. It would have been quite an easy shot from there. I expect if we trawled the seabed we would find the gun, where you undoubtedly dropped it. Then you returned the way you came."

"You have no proof of any of this" blustered Philippe.

"Dwayne?"

"You left your tyre tracks on the sand. They are quite distinctive tracks and we have already matched them to your car."

"You made Laura a very good offer for the business of course. Well, you could afford to – the drugs were worth far more than the banana business, weren't they? Once you had bought the plantation you and your wife would have been able to continue your dirty little trade with complete freedom. Read them their rights and lock them both up."

Fidel and Dwayne moved swiftly to handcuff the two culprits and led them out to the Defender.

* * *

"My congratulations," said the Commissioner, arriving some time later at La Kaz, where Richard, Camille, Fidel and Catherine had gathered to celebrate the arrests. "Another successful case. You're making quite a reputation for yourself on this island, Inspector."

"Thank you, Sir", replied Richard "but it was very much a team effort. And speaking of teams, where _is_ Dwayne? I thought he was meeting us here."

"He's coming, Sir. He has something to say to everyone. He …" Fidel trailed off uncertainly. "I think he had better tell you himself. Look, here he is."

And Dwayne strolled up to the little group, closely followed by Jackson Freeman. Richard looked at Dwayne enquiringly. The older officer looked unaccountably nervous, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other before eventually sitting down. This was not the usual laid-back and relaxed Dwayne they knew and loved.

"There's something I have to tell you all." He gulped at his beer, took a deep breath and started.

"Jackson came to see me the other day. He told me he was looking for some old family friends, on his mother's side. She came from Saint-Marie, you see."

"Ah yes, the Dibble family."

"Yes" interrupted Catherine, "and I told him that the family had long left the island, apart from the son, who had changed his name. That was Dwayne."

"Your name is really Dibble?" asked Richard in amazement.

"Yes, Chief, I changed it when I joined the police. Well, you know, here in the Caribbean we grew up on _Top Cat_. I could hardly be Officer Dibble, could I? I'd be a laughing stock."

Richard rocked with mirth. "We had _Top Cat_ in the UK too", he explained, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Officer Dibble!"

"Well anyway, that was why Jackson had trouble finding me. And when we did finally meet, I realised that I did know his family." He looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Jackson, you'd better tell this part of the story yourself. Sit down and pull up a chair."

"I was born in London", began Jackson, "like my dad, but my mum and her family came from here. I have a younger brother and a sister, but both my parents are dead now. My dad was a solicitor. He was a good man and he and my mum were very happy. He died in the London bombings a few years ago. That was a bad time for us, but we stuck together until last year, when my mum became ill. When she knew she was dying she sat me down one day and told me that the man I had always called dad wasn't actually my natural father, it was a guy she had known when she was a young girl on Saint-Marie. She wanted me to have the option of tracking him down, if I chose to."

"You're his _dad, _Dwayne?" This from Camille.

"No, I'm not his dad," said Dwayne seriously. "I'm his biological father. His dad is the man who brought him up, who taught him right from wrong and how to climb trees. I missed out on all of that."

"But you must have known he existed?"

"I promise you, I had no idea until he came knocking on my door. As you can imagine, it was a bit of a shock. It still is. You know how it is, we were both very young. His mother, Desirée, she was a bit of a rebel in her youth, that's why she took up with me in the first place. Her father was a pastor and she had a very strict upbringing. Her family didn't approve of me, of course – her father said I was good for nothing and would never achieve anything in life. We wanted to get married but he wouldn't hear of it. Packed the whole family up and emigrated to the UK."

"She didn't know she was pregnant until after she got to London" continued Jackson. "Then my grandfather found someone who was willing to marry her – my dad – and fortunately it all turned out for the best. As I said, he was a good man, he treated me exactly as if I was his own son and they had a good life together. I don't think she had any regrets."

"Did you never hear from her again, then, Dwayne?"

"She wrote to me some weeks after she got to London to say she was getting married. She didn't say anything about a baby. I guess she thought Mr Freeman would make a better father than me. She was probably right, though I wish she had told me. It was then that I decided to join the police – you know, to prove to her father that he was wrong about me, that I could be a useful member of society."

"Well you can't have been too broken-hearted since you've hardly been lacking in female company since then!" said Richard cynically. Camille flashed him a warning glance.

"That's true, Chief, but I never found another one I wanted to marry" replied Dwayne quietly.

"Yes, all right, sorry, point taken" mumbled Richard.

"So what are you going to do now, Jackson?" asked Camille.

"I thought I might stick around for a while, get to know Dwayne a bit. We've barely met and I'm still getting used to the idea that we are related. Once my arm is mended I'll see if I can get my old job back at Pierre's."

"Don't go back to Pierre" begged Catherine, "come and work for me! I'm not getting any younger and I could do with some help in the bar. Give it some thought! In the meantime, let's have a little party to celebrate Jackson's arrival in Dwayne's life!"

* * *

Several hours and a number of beers later Richard was feeling a little the worse for wear. All this socialising was exhausting. He got up from the table slightly unsteadily and announced that he was going home.

"Leaving so soon, Richard?" cried Catherine, "but the party is only just starting! Stay and have another drink – I'm making cocktails!"

Richard knew that he would be finished if he drank one of Catherine's lethal cocktails on top of the beers he had already had but weakly accepted the glass that was pushed into his hand. It was full of swizzle sticks and a mini umbrella. He looked at it distastefully. Camille sauntered over and perched saucily on the arm of his chair.

"Will your mother notice if I pour this into one of her flower tubs?"

"Probably not but it will undoubtedly kill the plants! Just drink it!"

"Well I hold you responsible if I fall flat on my face" he said, downing the drink. "You'll have to come home with me, I won't be fit to drive."

"It will be my pleasure", she giggled.

His face turned beetroot. "You know that's not what I meant! Oh God, why did I drink that thing?"

"Are you drunk, Richard?"

"No, of course not. Absolutely not. But I've certainly had more than enough, and I need to go home. I haven't fed the lizard."

"Come on, then, I'll take you." She glanced over to where Dwayne, Fidel and Catherine were laughing uproariously at some story Jackson was telling them. "They won't even notice we've gone."

Driving back to the shack, Camille wondered if this was the right time for her to make her move. That she was going to make it at some point was beyond doubt but she knew that if she got the timing wrong she would frighten him off and probably drive him away for good. She looked across at him. He was certainly mellow this evening, but mellow enough? Hmm.

They arrived. He jumped down and she followed. "Go and feed Harry" she called, "I'll sit on the beach."

She chose a spot and sat down on the sand, admiring the effects of the moonlight on the water and thinking hard. Her mind was finally made up - this was her do-or-die moment. She waited patiently for him to reappear and when he didn't went in search of him, taking care to first undo a couple of the buttons on her blouse and fluff up her hair.

"Richard?" she called softly in as alluring a voice as she could manage, approaching the veranda. "What are you doing? Come here, I want to talk to you." There was no answer, so she stepped inside the shack. There he sat in his favourite chair, clutching a mango, fast asleep and snoring gently. Camille smiled at the sight, sighed ruefully, and climbed back into the Defender. Tonight was clearly not the night after all.

At about ten o'clock the next morning her phone rang.

"I had rather too much to drink last night and I have no recollection of getting home but I imagine you must have driven me. Thank you. I hope I didn't say or do anything, um, you know, out of order?"

The temptation was too great. She said slowly "Well I wouldn't say it was out of order. I enjoyed it enormously, it's just a shame you can't remember."

"_What? _You don't mean …? Did I …? Did we …?"

She could hear the panic in his voice and relented. "Relax, Richard, I'm only teasing. Nothing happened. Of course you behaved like the perfect gentleman, as you always – well usually – do (_unfortunately_ she added mentally). In fact you fell asleep."

She could sense the relief in his voice. "Oh, um, good. Well, it's Saturday again and I thought you were going to show me more of the island."

"I thought you were bored with seeing the island. You never seem very enthusiastic. And anyway, we've done most of the sights."

"You never showed me the volcano", he complained peevishly.

"Excuse me", she nearly exploded, "I wanted to take you to the volcano. It was _you_ who said 'seen one volcano, you've seen them all', I seem to remember!"

"Oh really?" She could almost see the shrug.

"So how many volcanoes _do_ you have in England?" she enquired sarcastically.

"We may not have volcanoes but we do have glacial valleys. We had our own Ice Age, you know! Something that this island could well do with!" Sensing that the conversation was heading in the direction of one of their infamous arguments, he added quickly "So are you going to take me to see this volcano or not?"

"OK" she replied casually, secretly thrilled at the prospect of spending the day in his company. "I'll pick you up in 30 minutes."

* * *

"You can climb right to the top, if you want to. There's a path but it's fairly steep – it might be a bit much for you," she said doubtfully as they drove into the National Park and the volcano loomed up before them.

"I may be older than you but I'm not yet decrepit" replied Richard tartly. "I'm sure I'll manage fine."

"OK come on then" and she led the way. For the first hour the path wound up through the tropical rainforest, through lush vegetation which now and then yielded glimpses of exotic birds. As they climbed they left the rainforest behind and the landscape slowly became more lunar. The path became steeper and harder. Camille stretched out her hand to Richard, who was in front. She didn't really require assistance (she was fitter than him any day) but she certainly wasn't going to miss such an obvious opportunity for a little physical contact. They finished the rest of the climb hand in hand.

"There" she said, as they emerged panting on the summit "you see the vapours coming out of the crevasse."

"Sulphur", he nodded, sniffing the air. "Don't get too close to the edge."

"And see, this is the best view on the island." As the acidic clouds cleared they could see the whole island spread beneath them, fringed with golden sands and lapped by the deep blue of the ocean.

"Very impressive" said Richard.

"Excuse me?"

"I said it's very impressive. It is. What's wrong with that?" he asked mystified.

"Nothing at all. It's just that it's the first time you've said anything nice about the island in all the excursions we've made."

"Oh, well, I must be going senile in my old age."

She laughed and pointed down the track. Let's go back to the jeep and I'll take you to one of my favourite places – it's not far."

"Where are we going?" he asked as they bumped uncomfortably along a rutted track.

"When I was young my friends and I used to come to swim in one of the waterfalls. It's not easy to find so there are no tourists. We used to think of it as our secret place. Here we are, follow me!"

She led the way through dense undergrowth. Richard gritted his teeth and firmly banished all thoughts of snakes and man-eating insects. He could hear the sound of rushing water. Suddenly they emerged into a sunlit clearing. A torrent of sparking, frothing water tumbled down an overhanging rock and into a large pool beneath, forming a watery curtain.

"It's an old volcanic crater so it's pretty deep" explained Camille. "There are two mountain streams that join and fall over the rock together, so they call it 'Le baiser des amants'." Richard raised an enquiring eyebrow. "The lovers' kiss. There's a legend, of course, but I'm sure you won't like it!"

"Oh please don't tell me it has anything to do with pirates or voodoo curses! No, let me guess. Women who bathe in the waterfall will be fertile and have at least a dozen children?"

She giggled uncontrollably. "Something like that. Well, all that climbing has made me very hot and sticky so I'm going to have a swim. I'll have to risk the dozen children! Are you coming in?"

"What? No, I haven't brought any swimming things" he protested.

"You don't need them. Swim in your underpants, or take them off and swim naked!" She laughed at the appalled expression on Richard's face. "Haven't you ever gone, how do you call it, skinny-dipping?"

"Certainly not! Have you any idea of the average sea temperature around the UK? Anyway, it's positively indecent and probably unhealthy."

"Oh come on, Richard, it will do you good. The water is lovely and cool."

"No no, I'll only tread on a jelly fish or a sea urchin or something."

"Richard, this is _fresh_ water. Don't be such a baby!" And she started to strip off her clothes.

"No, wait, Camille!" he called, his face blanching.

"Don't worry, I've got my bikini on underneath!"

As if that made much difference, thought Richard, desperately trying to avert his eyes from the sight of her satin skin and taut muscles. His insides were behaving in a most peculiar way. He was afraid to look at her, afraid she might read in his face what he had tried so hard to deny, what had haunted his dreams for so many months now.

"See, you can look, I'm perfectly decent!" she called.

"Well I don't want to be accused of ogling" he offered.

"Ogle away", she laughed merrily and jumped into the pool. "It's really lovely. If you won't come in, why don't you go and sit on that rock that's sticking out and just dip your feet in the water?"

Richard considered the suggestion carefully. The water did indeed look inviting and, although it had been quite cool at the top of the volcano, the climb had made him extremely hot. There seemed little harm in just putting his feet in the water, so he took off his jacket and edged cautiously along to the end the rock which formed a little promontory into the lake. Sitting down carefully he removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and lowered his feet gently into the water. It was blissfully cool. He sighed in contentment and turned his head to watch Camille swimming, her arms glistening in the sunlight as they arced through the water. He could easily have watched her all day. In her tiny white bikini she looked even more stunning than usual and her happy laughter rang out across the water. His heart began thumping so loudly he was sure she must hear it and he felt seriously light-headed. Surely, surely, this glorious creature couldn't seriously be interested in him? Could she possibly? Lost in his thoughts, Richard hardly heard his phone ring. He stood up to retrieve it from his jacket which he had left on the shore.

Camille swam happily, enjoying the sensation of the cool water on her burning body. Out of the corner of her eye she was watching Richard perched on his rock. Well, at least he had taken his shoes and socks off – that was a victory of a kind. She dived underneath the waterfall. Surfacing, she heard a strangled cry and then a splash. Richard's rock was empty.

"_Richard!" _she shrieked and made as fast as she could for the spot where he had fallen in. Before she could get there, however, he surfaced, spluttering.

"I got up to answer my phone and my foot slipped on the bloody rock" he gasped. "I went right under. You're right, the water is deep here. Oh well, since I'm in now I suppose I might as well have a swim."

"Are you all right? I didn't know if you could actually swim, since you never go near the water. And you're fully dressed!"

"I never said I couldn't swim. Of course I can swim. Everyone had to learn to swim at that damn school of mine. And not just swim, mind, we all had to do the lifesaving thing – you know, jumping in fully clothed."

"Really? OK, well come and save me then!" she called playfully and allowed herself to sink to the bottom of the pool. There was nothing for it. He just hoped he could remember how to do it. He took a deep breath, dived, caught her underneath the arms and hauled her to the surface. She was squealing with laughter.

"Can we stop playing games now, please?"

"Certainly." She drew him behind the curtain of water, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. It was only a brief kiss, as they were both treading water at the same time, but definitely a promise of things to come. The pounding of Richard's heart grew even louder. His senses were reeling dangerously. He stared at her wide-eyed as a slow smile spread across her face.

"Come on" she urged him "we need to dry off before we head home. It won't take any time in this heat." They climbed out onto the bank. Richard was dripping everywhere.

"You'd better take your clothes off and hang them out to dry. Don't worry" she added, seeing his face flush with embarrassment, "I've got a towel you can put round yourself for decency and I promise I won't look." She got the towel out of her bag, handed it to him and sat with her hands over her face.

"I don't trust you! Turn around", he ordered as he began to strip off his sodden clothing. She could hear mysterious rustlings, zips and buttons being undone. She edged round, desperate for a quick peek.

"No cheating!" he called reprovingly, then after a while "There, you can turn round now."

It was like washing day in one of the old villages. All his clothes were neatly spread over rocks and bushes to dry in the afternoon sun. He sat on a rock with the towel firmly tied round his waist busily slapping sun cream onto his never normally exposed arms and chest. She marvelled at how pale his skin still was, after all these months in the Caribbean. He stretched to reach his back and shoulders.

"Here, let me do that for you." As her fingers gently massaged the cream into his skin, sliding further and further down his back, he almost groaned with pleasure. He knew he would have to stop her, or he wouldn't be answerable for his actions.

"Thanks, that's fine, really fine."

They sat companionably, talking about anything except what was at the forefront of both their minds. They chatted about Dwayne's recent astonishing revelations and speculated about Jackson's likely future. Camille hoped that he would stay on the island – she thought it would do Dwayne good to have to think about someone other than himself and his love life. Richard, who rarely took a view on people's personal lives, tended to agree. He glanced at his watch.

"We should be getting back, my clothes are dry now." Camille obediently turned her back again while he quickly got dressed. She would deal with the undressing issue tonight, she promised herself. There was no way she was allowing him to go to sleep on her a second time! She felt light-headed, as if she was walking on air: the day had way exceeded her expectations. Richard had been the most relaxed she had ever seen him and she was confident now that she could make the final breakthrough.

As they drove slowly back towards Honoré, Richard reviewed the day's events in his mind. There seemed no doubt that – incredible though it might seem (and it did) – Camille did appear to want him. He didn't know how serious her feelings were, whether this was just a whim, a bit of a fling or something deeper. He suspected the former. After all, compared to other men, he really had very little to offer. He was quite a bit older than her, to start with, with very much less experience. She was stunning to look at, whereas he was … not. She was vibrant and fun-loving, his lifestyle more closely mirrored that of a trappist monk. Looked at in the cold light of day it did seem extraordinarily unlikely that she was after anything more than a quick thrill. He was a novelty, that was all, something different from her usual type of man. Yes, that was undoubtedly it. He was sure her interest would fade once her curiosity had been satisfied. In any case he seriously doubted his own ability to make her happy in the long run. The question remained: how far did he want the relationship to go? He could not deny that he was hugely attracted to her but he knew that a brief fling – although it was probably all that was on offer – was not what he was looking for. How would he feel if she quickly lost interest in him? Could he continue to work with her in those circumstances? He very much doubted that he could. But at least it would be something to remember once he got back to the UK.

They were approaching Honoré again, and he knew he needed to make a decision. Should he ask her to stay with him tonight? He suspected that she would if he asked, but should he take that next step? In the midst of his indecision his phone rang.

Camille could tell that the call came from the UK.

"Hello. Yes, yes it is. I'm sorry, I'm in the Caribbean, you see." A pause. "Oh my god, are they badly hurt?"

She glanced quickly at Richard. He looked shocked but was listening intently.

"Yes, I see. Well thank you for letting me know. Yes, I'll catch the next plane."

She looked at him enquiringly, concern etched in her face.

"It's my parents. They've been in a bad accident on the way back from Royal Ascot. A lorry smashed into their car. They're in hospital. Dad has lost part of his leg and has some internal injuries, Mum is in a coma, they don't know how serious it is at the moment. Camille, I'm sorry but I have to go back, they have no-one else. What time is the next flight to London?"

"I think there's one in a couple of hours. You've just about got time. I'll take you straight home so you can pick up your passport. Ring the airport."

They made a brief stop at the shack, where Richard quickly packed an overnight bag – no time for any proper luggage, which would probably get lost in any case, he thought grimly. On the way to the airport Richard called the Commissioner. He turned to Camille.

"He has given me two weeks' compassionate leave, at the end of which I have to let him know whether I'm coming back. He'll be ringing you shortly to ask you to take charge while I'm away."

Camille felt as if she were sleepwalking in a dream, or rather a nightmare. None of it seemed real. Only an hour or so ago they were on the brink of starting a relationship and now here was Richard flying out of her life, perhaps for good. It just couldn't be happening. She felt totally numb. She wanted to scream and shout, to beg him not to go but she just couldn't. She sat there blankly, devoid of all emotion. In her heart of hearts she knew he had no choice, and in any case Richard was now focused only on his parents and seemed hardly to realise that she was there.

They reached the airport just as the flight was about to close. There was no time for proper goodbyes. She flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly, then pushed him away, wordlessly. He picked up his case and ran through the barrier without looking back. Which was when the storm broke and the tears began to stream down her face.


	6. Chapter 6

_Well, this is my way of dealing with the unavoidable fact that Richard is being written out and plays only a small part in Series 3. It takes place at the end of Series 3._

Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey drove down the track and parked the Defender. The noise of the engine died away and she sat for a while lost in her thoughts before reluctantly getting out. She really didn't want to be here but she had promised. The shack looked as dilapidated as ever. Really, she thought, it was amazing that it had withstood so many tropical storms; it was fortunate that they hadn't had a full-blown hurricane for some years, as she was sure it would not survive.

Well, she had promised Humphrey, so she had better get on with it. She turned the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in. As always, a barrage of memories instantly hit her. It was why she hated coming here now and rarely did so. There was the chair where Richard had always sat, the kitchen where he carried out all those amazing scientific experiments which she had only pretended to understand, the television that he had tried so hard to tune to Fiona Bruce (whoever she was), the bed that in the end they had never shared. She remembered the times when she had surprised him in his pajamas, when he was shooing away the hens or backing nervously away from the snake, the times when she had found him sleeping in his chair like a cherub, the times they had sat on the veranda together.

Camille gave herself a mental shake. Enough of that. It was over, and she had a job to do. She picked up a mango and started to chop. Trust Humphrey to land her with the job of looking after Harry while he went swanning off to Jamaica for the week. Someone must have told him that she had done it while Richard was away, and he had asked her so charmingly before he left this morning that it was impossible to say no. But that was Humphrey for you: clever, witty, lively and oh-so-charming in his laid-back way - and she hated him. Hated him for sitting at Richard's desk, hated him for doing Richard's job, hated him for living in Richard's house, hated him basically for not being Richard. Except that of course she didn't really hate him, try as she might – it was impossible to hate Humphrey. (He had insisted that they all call him Humphrey. This had confused poor Fidel dreadfully at first, who had a tendency at the beginning to call him Sir – Humphrey, which DI Goodman had found most amusing.)

They had all succumbed eventually of course. Dwayne was the first – he recognised in Humphrey a fellow acolyte of the relaxed Caribbean lifestyle and embraced his presence with hardly a second thought. Fidel had held out longer: he had been devoted to his old boss, had been heart-broken at not being able to say goodbye, and had taken some time to accept the new man. But he was a good officer and he knew that loyalty to his superior was essential if the team was to function, even if at times it felt like betrayal. And the team did function; Humphrey's way of working may have been completely different from Richard's but his mind was just as incisive and they had solved a number of baffling murders together.

As for herself, Camille had from the very first determined that she would treat DI Goodman with a degree of professionalism that was beyond reproach. She did her job with her usual efficiency, she was helpful and polite but she displayed a coolness and a reserve which set her apart from the other members of the team. She suspected that Fidel and Dwayne had warned Humphrey that she had had a 'thing' about Richard, for he never tried for the same degree of familiarity that he achieved with the two junior officers. By unspoken but mutual consent, Richard's name was rarely spoken in the police station these days.

Camille sighed and looked round the shack. Although the maid had been in to clean and change the sheets that morning, the place still looked a mess. Books, papers and clothes were tossed on any available surface, there was the usual pile of washing up in the sink, and the sand was starting to invade the floor again. How Richard would have disapproved. But Richard wasn't here, hadn't been here for more than six months now. She wasn't going to be stupidly sentimental and count the days since she had last heard from him, but it was a very long time. He had rung her shortly after he got back to the UK to tell her that his father was having another operation to repair damage to internal organs and would then need to have a prosthetic leg fitted. His mother appeared to have suffered a stroke but it wasn't yet clear how seriously she would be affected. Then, at exactly the end of his two weeks of compassionate leave, had come the email (not even a phone call) in which he announced that he would not be returning to the island. She knew the words by heart, she had read them so often. He had said he hoped she would understand and that he would always remember the time they had spent together with affection. _Affection! _ It was lucid, reasoned and quite, quite cold. She had felt the chill seep through her veins as she read it. So that was it: she had meant nothing more to him than this. She cursed the circumstances that had taken him from her before they had really had a chance. Two very tentative kisses were just not enough to build a relationship on, she reflected bitterly. It had taken some time before she finally accepted that he had lost interest in her; when her birthday was approaching she could not stop herself from wondering whether she might just hear from him, but the day came and went with no sign. That was when she finally gave up hope.

Catherine observed her daughter with some concern. Outwardly she was the same Camille, though perhaps some of the old sparkle was missing. But Catherine detected a subtle change, it was as if Camille had developed an inner core of steel that could not be penetrated. Catherine had been instantly captivated by the beguiling charm of the new DI, who paid her easy compliments, drank her cocktails and ate her seafood platters with great relish. Yes, he was chaotic and disorganised but in his own way he was just as brilliant as Richard and, in Catherine's eyes, very much more suitable for Camille as a potential husband. She had taken to inviting him to dinner and invariably found an excuse to leave him alone with her daughter. Camille had not been remotely deceived by her mother's tactics, however, and had berated her soundly.

"Richard is not coming back. I know that, maman, but that doesn't mean that I am going to succumb to the next eligible man who crosses my path. I am sorry about the grandchildren, but I have decided that marriage is not for me. I am going to concentrate on taking my Inspector's exams – I want to be the first native-born Inspector on this island. So please stop trying to throw me and Humphrey together." Catherine never mentioned the subject again.

So here she was, back at the shack, back feeding that bloody lizard. And she was fine. Just fine. She was over it. Over him. Really. She was. But the bloody lizard was nowhere to be found. "Harry! _Harry!"_ she called, with increasing irritation. Her phone rang. She put down the bowl of mango, picked up her mobile and stared at the name that was flashing at her. It couldn't be. Not after all this time. For a moment she felt completely paralysed; the phone continued to ring and she continued to stare at it. Finally she pressed the button. "Richard? Richard, what do you think you're doing ringing me after all these months? Where are you?"

"Well actually I'm, um, on the veranda" said a very familiar voice.

She spun round incredulously. There, standing in the doorway of the shack, stood Richard Poole.

* * *

Richard Poole crunched up the gravelled drive and parked his car in its usual place. It had been a so-so sort of day at work but he had stayed late. To be honest, he was never particularly keen to go home in the evenings. He tried his best, but he found living with two invalids who happened also to be his parents really quite stressful. Of course there were carers who came and went during the day, but ultimately the responsibility for his parents' well being was his, and it was not one that he particularly welcomed or thought he was much good at. So he was glad to leave for work every morning, even if the job he was doing wasn't a patch on what he had had at Croydon, let alone on Saint-Marie.

When it had become clear that his parents' need of him was going to prevent him from returning to the Caribbean, he had sold his house in Croydon and moved into the upper floor of their house. For the first time he was glad that his parents had bought such a large house; at least he could retire to his sanctuary upstairs, pull up the drawbridge and enjoy some privacy. It was not that he disliked his parents, but he had never been close to them and he found living in such intimacy really very difficult. They had never had a great deal in common and the sheer effort of trying to predict and then meet their needs found him frequently irritable and short-tempered. Camille would have called him grumpy – but he wasn't thinking about Camille.

His father had recovered physically from the operation, but was left wheelchair-bound - and extremely bad-tempered as a consequence. (If Camille thought he, Richard, was grumpy she should just meet his father! But of course she never would.) Richard had had to have parts of the ground floor specially adapted for wheelchair access. Gordon Poole had been fitted with a prosthetic limb to replace the lower leg he had lost in the accident but much to Richard's irritation refused to wear it. They had had endless arguments on the subject but his father remained firmly in his wheelchair. At least, thought Richard savagely, it stops him from coming upstairs.

His mother was a different matter. Edwina ("after Lady Mountbatten, dear") had been in a coma for some days. When she emerged it was into a strange twilight sort of world. The doctors concluded that she had had a fairly serious stroke. Her speech was hardly affected but her left side was weak and her memory was impaired. There were times when she was almost normal, and others when she thought Richard was still a child and reminded him to change his underpants or wash behind his ears. He never knew which mother he would encounter.

He reflected bitterly that for one who had most definitely never been a 'people person' there could be few individuals less suited to a caring role. Camille, for instance, would have been fantastic at it, with her warmth and natural empathy – but he wasn't thinking about Camille. He was just grateful for the steady trickle of carers who saw to the immediate needs of the ground floor, and wished he didn't feel so utterly trapped. He was glad to be back in England again of course – that went without saying. He had complained so frequently about the constant heat and the sand that he couldn't possibly miss them, could he. The grey skies and seemingly constant drizzle were an excellent antidote.

He looked in briefly on his parents then made his way upstairs. He took a ready meal out of the freezer, popped it in the microwave and switched on his computer to check his emails. His eye stopped on one very familiar address. What on earth was Commissioner Patterson writing to him about? He opened the email with some reluctance. The island and everything (and everyone) in it was firmly locked away in a far corner of his mind. He very rarely spoke about his time in the Caribbean, even to his parents; he didn't want to stir up old memories. Most of all, he didn't want to remember Camille – her warmth, her laughter, her scent, the feel of her lips on his, the relationship that never quite was. He didn't want to acknowledge the yawning gap that had opened up in his life since he had left her.

It had not taken him many days to realise that he would not be able to return to Saint-Marie, at least for some years, and he really couldn't expect her to wait that long for him. He knew he had to tell her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. When the fortnight's compassionate leave was up he had forced himself to sit down and email her. He should have rung her, he knew, but he didn't think he could cope with hearing her voice and he was afraid his resolve would fail. The email had gone through fourteen drafts before he was satisfied with it. He gradually eliminated all the more emotional parts where he tried to tell her how much she had meant to him and what a difference she had made to his life. It was better she thought that he didn't care, he reasoned. That would make it easier for her to find someone else – someone younger and more suitable and most importantly someone who was free to spend his life with her. So he pared the email down to the bare bones and clicked the send button. She didn't reply.

Then it was her birthday (not that he had been counting the days, of course). Acting on impulse one day he had bought her a card, but he had tied himself in so many knots trying to find something appropriate to write in it that in the end he had not sent it. He got a beer from his fridge and drank a silent toast to her on the day instead.

But now here was the Commissioner forcing him to revisit painful memories. He half expected the email to start "May I have a word, Inspector?" It didn't of course and apart from a few polite enquiries about his own and his parents' well being it confined itself to informing him that the trial of Sarah Jarvis and Philippe Delacroix was due to start in a couple of weeks. It had been delayed, the Commissioner explained, because of Interpol's wish to clear up the whole drugs ring first. As the officer in charge of the case he, Richard, would be required to give evidence. The Commissioner assumed that he would not be able to do this in person and suggested that it should be done via Skype. Richard noted the date and emailed his agreement to the proposal. He felt distinctly unsettled.

In the days that followed Richard tried to focus on his work and put the forthcoming trial to the back of his mind. He had got a job with the police in Bristol. It wasn't the Murder Squad of course and he spent much of his time dealing with robberies, domestic disputes and anti-social behaviour, but it was convenient and fairly close to home. His colleagues were pleasant if unexciting and he made a genuine effort to get on with them. He wasn't exactly popular, but neither was he laughed at or ignored. He got on with his work quietly and efficiently, more or less successfully trying to stifle the longing for a nice, complicated murder to get his teeth into.

But the Commissioner's email had opened Pandora's Box. However much he tried, Richard couldn't prevent his thoughts from straying thousands of miles across the ocean. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about Camille. He wouldn't have believed it possible to miss someone so much. He knew going back was out of the question but the sheer frustration of his situation made him even more querulous and irritable than normal. He just about managed to contain it at work but it spilled over as soon as he got home. He had less and less patience with the world in general and his parents in particular. One evening, after a long rant about the inefficiency of the local GP's surgery and the time it took to get an appointment, he was launching into a second diatribe about his father's inability to keep the garden in order even with the help of a handyman when Gordon Poole interrupted him.

"For God's sake Richard, you're becoming downright impossible to live with. I thought you had improved when you first came back but now you're getting worse by the day. What on earth is the matter with you?"

"Sorry, dad" he mumbled.

"It's that case, back on the island, isn't it?" said Gordon shrewdly. "Ever since that email came you've been like a bear with a sore head and I damned if I know why. It's not as if you have to actually turn up, all you have to do is talk to them over the internet."

"Well, um, the internet connection on the island isn't all that good and I'm worried it won't work."

Gordon snorted with derision. "Oh do me a favour and just book yourself a flight. Go back to that bloody island and leave your mother and me in peace for once – you can book us into respite care for a week."

And so it was that a week later Richard Poole stepped off the plane once more at Saint-Marie Airport, to be hit by a wall of heat that almost made him stagger. He had forgotten just how hot the island could get. He had no luggage apart from his overnight bag, figuring that any suitcase of his was bound to be lost so there was no point in bringing one. He ordered a taxi to take him to the beachfront hotel he had booked. On the journey familiar sights, sounds and smells assailed him: the battered old cars, the colourful market traders, the rustling of the wind in the palm trees, the heavy scent of the flowers. A kaleidoscope of memories came rushing towards him. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been wise to come. No-one was expecting him – he hadn't notified even the Commissioner that he would be giving his evidence in person. In fact he could turn around and get the next plane back to London if he chose to.

It all depended on Camille really. If he was honest with himself, the only reason he had come back was to see her again. It was a moment of sheer weakness which he knew he should have been strong enough to resist, for nothing had changed: he couldn't stay on the island and it would only make going back home again even harder. But his life had been so empty without her. Of course she might have moved on in the six months since he had left, might have found another man – perhaps even the new DI. The more he thought about it, the likelier it seemed. A small part of him hoped that she had, for then he would know for sure that it was over and in a funny kind of way that would help.

He didn't want to call at the station, didn't want to have to face Dwayne and Fidel just yet. Neither did he want to call on Camille at La Kaz – Catherine was the last person he wanted to see. He thought he would walk along the beach in the evening to his old house, where the new DI was presumably in residence, and introduce himself. He was sure he could rely on DI Goodman to tell the other members of the team that he was back, so if she wanted to see him Camille would come and find him at the hotel. And if she didn't turn up then he would have his answer.

He wandered along the beach in the direction of the shack. For some reason that he could not fathom the sand seemed less of an irritant than it used to. Several people spotted him and waved or shouted a greeting, and he realised that word would soon get around that the strange Englishman in the woollen suit was back on the island. The shack looked just the same, the Roast Beef drawn up on the sand. He approached the veranda of the house, then stopped dead. There was a voice issuing from the shack and it certainly wasn't that of DI Goodman. This was completely unexpected. Listening to Camille calling to Harry, his confidence deserted him. How would she react? Would she be pleased to see him? Had she missed him? Would she even speak to him? He stood in nervous indecision for a while, unable to go either forwards or back, then pulled out his phone and dialled her number.

* * *

They stood staring at each other – incredulity on Camille's face, apprehension on Richard's. There was an awkward silence. She finally managed to speak.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Her tone was hostile.

"I didn't know you were here. I came to see DI Goodman."

"He's in Jamaica, having a week's leave. That's not what I meant. I thought you were giving evidence via Skype?"

This was not going well. "Well, I, um, I was worried that the, er, connection wouldn't work properly."

"And just how long did you spend on this island? Did the internet connection ever fail you?" The sarcasm was unmistakeable. Richard started to feel sick. He knew he shouldn't have come.

"Well, er, no, not really. I just thought it would be better to do it in person."

"And you didn't think it might be a good idea – courteous even – to let me, _people_ know you were coming?"

"Sorry" he mumbled.

Camille was a boiling cauldron of mixed emotions: joy, relief, amazement, fear, hope. Suddenly she knew which one was uppermost – it was sheer bloody anger. How dare he just turn up out of the blue after all this time. How dare he put her through six months of misery and then expect her to welcome him with open arms. She fought back the tears that were springing unbidden to her eyes and hissed at him.

"Yes, it's easy just to say sorry, isn't it. Do you have any idea what you put me through, Richard? Six months, and not a word. Do you know what that felt like? Do you know what it's like to be dumped? To have your colleagues whispering behind your back and feeling _sorry_ for you? Then you suddenly appear out of nowhere. What am I supposed to say? 'Don't worry, it's OK'? Well it's _not _OK, it's very much not OK. How could you do that to me, Richard? How could you be so cruel?"

He blanched at the onslaught. She was hitting him now with her fists, but the tears which had threatened for so long had started to spill over and were quickly turning into choking sobs. Now Richard Poole was a man who had run his entire life on the basis of logic and reason; emotion and instinct he had always scorned. And logic and reason were screaming at him to apologise, leave quickly and get the next plane back to London. Yet somehow proven scientific facts seemed unequal to the task of pacifying the passionate, sobbing woman before him, the woman he had come halfway round the world to see. For probably the first time in his life he acted entirely on impulse. He caught her fists, slid his arms around her, and held her tightly. For a few seconds she resisted, then laid her head against him, crying weakly into his shoulder. For once, the words came easily to him.

"I'm so sorry, Camille, I didn't mean to hurt you. I honestly thought it was for the best. I knew it would be years before I could come back to Saint-Marie and I couldn't expect you to wait that long. I thought it would give you a chance to find someone else, someone younger, someone more suitable." She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her and continued. "I'm no match for you, Camille. I'm … I'm all the things you used to call me: annoying, pompous, pedantic, rude, smug, awkward, childish, grumpy – I lost count. And I'm nearly middle-aged. You're still young, you're so full of life and fun, you don't need a dull, old, emotionally stunted idiot like me."

Her face still hidden, her voice was muffled. "Don't you think I should be the judge of that? So why did you come back then?"

There was a pause while Richard desperately searched for words. This was important – he had to get it right.

"Because … because for the past six months I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, however hard I tried, and I knew I just had to see you again. I've missed you so much, life has been so empty." He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled envelope. "Happy birthday", he said, offering it to her. "Sorry it's a bit late." She wiped away a tear and opened it.

"But it doesn't say anything?"

"No, well, you see, um, I couldn't think what to write, so in the end I didn't send it."

For the first time she smiled. "Same old Richard, never able to find the right words!"

A flash of bright green skittered across the floor towards the bowl of mango, stopped dead in front of Richard and stared at him.

"Harry seems pleased to see you. We were quite worried about your little lizard after you left. Seemed to go into a bit of a decline. Or perhaps it was just a sulk."

"Well, he's clearly got over it now."

"Actually, there's something you need to know. Harry isn't Harry, he's Harriet. Shortly after you left he laid a clutch of eggs and for a while poor Humphrey was overrun by baby lizards! I would have thought that with all the lizard books you had you would have been able to tell what sex she was!"

"Well I told you I was no good with women!"

"Well, let's see how good you are with this one", and she pulled him towards her for a long, breathless kiss.

"You have no idea how much I want you" she murmured when they finally separated, propelling him gently but firmly backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he toppled over. He protested feebly when she began to strip off his clothes. The hated suit was soon on the floor closely followed by sundry other items. She began to cover him with a myriad of tiny kisses. He stopped her, briefly.

"Camille, I haven't …" he said uncertainly.

"I know, it doesn't matter", she replied tenderly. And it didn't.

* * *

Some time later, when she had finally caught her breath, Camille rolled on her side and looked quizzically at Richard.

"Are you quite certain you haven't done that before?"

"I feel sure I would have noticed."

She giggled and snuggled happily into him. It augured well for the future.

Just before dawn she stirred from a deep and peaceful sleep. She stretched out her arm for him but it fell upon a cold and empty bed. She sat up. She could see Richard's silhouette out on the veranda, staring out at the sea and the rising sun. She swung her legs out of bed and stepped on a pile of crumpled wool which had so heedlessly been discarded along with a pile of tangled inhibitions. Coming up softly behind him she slid her arms around his torso and kissed the nape of his neck. He shuddered uncontrollably.

"What is it, Richard?" she whispered.

His whole body seemed to heave. He spoke in a low but anguished voice. "It's no good, Camille, I shouldn't have come back to the island. I got carried away. It was a mistake, I should have known better."

"Are you sorry that it happened? I rather thought you quite enjoyed it!"

He turned to face her and gripped her hands tightly. "It was the most amazing and fantastic thing that has ever happened to me! Believe me, there is nothing in this world I want more than to stay here with you, but I can't, Camille, I can't! I have to go back. My parents need me." His voice cracked, he turned from her and stared again out to sea.

"Richard Poole, for such a clever man, you can be amazingly stupid at times! No, you can't stay here. Yes, you have to go back to England. But there are other options. What about me? I need you too. I've tried staying here without you and I didn't like it at all, and there's no way I'm going to let you leave me again. So the solution is obvious – I have to go to England as well."

He turned and stared intently into her face. "You would do that, Camille? You would really do that?"

"Yes, of course. It's the only way."

"But what about your job, your mother, your friends …?"

"I'll miss my mother of course, but there's Skype. And yes, I'll be sorry to leave my job, but they have police forces in England don't they? None of it really matters, Richard, as long as we can be together. That's all I want." She clung to him and he buried his face in her hair.

"Marry me, Camille" he murmured thickly and felt her quiver in response.

"I thought you'd never ask." His arms tightened round her and they stood locked together for some time.

"There's just one problem."

"What?" he asked anxiously.

Her hands slid down to the pajama bottoms he had put on.

"You're wearing too many clothes again."

* * *

It was nearly 8 am when they stirred from sleep again. The sunlight was streaming into the shack and it was already becoming very warm. Richard turned and smiled at the dark head on the pillow next to him. He felt incredibly alive.

"Good morning"

She smiled back. "Good morning to you too." She cuddled up to him. "Some time last night you asked me to marry you. Did you mean it?"

He looked horrified. "Of course I meant it. And I seem to recall that you said yes." His eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me that you've changed your mind?" He steeled himself for her answer.

"No of course not. I love you so much."

He sighed with relief. "Well that's all right then."

"Do you love me, Richard?"

He considered for a moment then replied dreamily. "No, not really. I always sleep with my sergeants. Fidel is next. _Ow!_" A vicious blow from a well-aimed pillow left him gasping. He threw her onto her back, his face hovering just above hers. "Of course I do" he said softly, and kissed her quite gently. She wriggled with pure contentment.

"You know I won't be able to leave the island immediately", she warned. "I'll have to work my notice period. But then I'll come to England and we can get married there."

"No," he said with a sudden firmness that surprised her. "I want to get married here, on Saint-Marie. It just feels right."

"But …"

"But nothing. I've got five days before I fly back to London. Surely that's long enough to arrange a wedding?"

Her eyes were alight with excitement. "You clearly know nothing about weddings! But if we do without all the usual frills it might just be possible. We'll need a Special Licence – I'll speak to the Commissioner about that when I give him my resignation, he's bound to know the right people. And we can leave everything else to maman!"

* * *

If you had asked Richard Poole to describe his ideal wedding, he would have replied, with total honesty, that he had never given it any thought, that he had never even entertained the possibility of getting married. If pushed, he supposed it would involve a centuries-old church with a vicar and choirboys in crumpled surplices, an organist who missed out all the difficult notes, and ladies in smart dresses, large hats and heels they could barely walk in. It would most definitely not involve an expanse of golden sand, a steel band with its sinuous and intoxicating rhythms, and an assortment of the most colourful and flamboyant clothes he had ever seen – and that was just the men. But Richard simply didn't care. Camille had explained that no hotel could accommodate them at such short notice, so a simple beach wedding was really the only option, and he had been happy to go along with that.

A small canopy had been set up for the actual ceremony and a carpet laid in the aisle between several rows of benches. Richard hadn't really thought the benches were necessary – after all, he reasoned, he really knew very few people on the island and he didn't expect more than a handful to turn up at his wedding. It was therefore quite a surprise when he arrived to find a packed 'congregation'. He supposed that Camille must have more friends and relations than he had thought – until he looked more closely and realised that many of them were in fact known to him. There was Father Charles, now Headmaster of a much happier school, and Phil and Alex Owen, whose boat rental business was surviving, if only just. Curtis (fortunately without his snake) and Avita, now married themselves were there, together with Alex and Nicole Seymour, happily now sober, who had once more taken over the running of the Seymour Plantation. He spotted Father John and Sister Marguerite, exchanging a little banter with Dwayne, and Carlton Banks, now Head Nurse at the Clinic, guiding and supporting the almost blind surgeon Jeremy Tipping. And finally there was Laura Peverel, on the arm of her fiancé Matt McAllister. Richard was astonished.

"You see, Chief, there are a lot of people on this island who appreciate what you've done and wish you well. You have more friends than you think," said Dwayne, approaching with Jackson. "And may I say how very smart you look, Chief!"

Richard had agonised over what to wear for his wedding. Camille had threatened not to turn up if he wore one of his woollen suits, so he had visited a local tailor, taking Fidel with him for advice as he really didn't trust his own judgment in matters sartorial. The result had been a lightweight cream jacket over beige trousers, and a short-sleeved open-necked shirt. He felt rather self-conscious but had to admit that it was lot more comfortable in the heat than his usual suit. He also rather beautifully matched the sand, he thought ruefully.

He moved nervously to loosen his tie before remembering that he wasn't wearing one. Fidel smiled reassuringly at him. He was acting as Best Man, and had checked at least six times that he had the rings safely in his pocket. Richard tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. He wondered if all bridegrooms felt this nervous. The minutes ticked past while they waited for the arrival of the bride. She was late. It was two minutes past the specified time and Richard began to panic seriously. What if she didn't come? What if she had changed her mind? He had asked her several times over the past few days if she was quite sure she wanted to marry him, until finally she had sat him down and spoken to him quite firmly.

"Why would I not want to marry you, Richard? I love you, why can't you just accept that? Why do you disparage yourself so? Yes, you can be pompous, pedantic, childish and all those other things at times, though you're much better than you used to be, but you're also funny, kind, caring and gentle. That's the Richard I love and the Richard that I want to marry." He hadn't asked her again. But perhaps at the last minute she had had second thoughts?

"Don't worry, Sir, she'll be here!" whispered Fidel. At that moment there was a stir in the crowd. The bride had arrived.

It hadn't occurred to Richard to ask who would be giving Camille away, since she had no father to speak of. He was therefore staggered to see her advancing towards him on the arm of a beaming Commissioner Patterson, resplendent in full dress uniform. He was a magnificent sight but Richard had eyes for no-one but Camille. On a day-to-day basis he would normally rate her as stunning but today, radiant with happiness, she was just breathtaking, in a long dress of cerulean blue. "I'm not wearing white", she had warned him. "White is for demure young girls, and I'm none of those things." Reflecting on the activities of the past few days (and nights), he had felt unable to disagree. And now here she was standing next to him. She smiled, and his heart turned somersaults. The service began.

Afterwards, while the guests were tucking into the platters so kindly provided by Pierre, Richard found time to thank the Commissioner for agreeing to release Camille early so that she could return to the UK with him.

"To tell you the truth, Inspector, I was under some pressure from the Governor's niece. She's currently working with the police in Antigua and has been inundating me with requests to transfer to Saint-Marie, so it has worked out very conveniently. And it's always good to keep in with the Governor. I trust that you will enjoy living in England, Camille. I always think it's very important to know where you belong. You should bear that in mind, Inspector."

"I will, Sir, I will. And thank you for giving Camille away today – that was quite unexpected."

"Well, when she asked me so nicely how could I refuse? Besides, since I was the one who brought you together to start with, it seemed only appropriate."

"Yes, and it was me and Fidel who encouraged you to ask her out in the first place with a little conversation that you were intended to overhear!" added Dwayne, joining the little group.

"And I put an aphrodisiac in your tea once I realised the way the wind was blowing" added Catherine.

Richard turned to Camille. "Did we have _any _say in this?" he asked in mock despair.

She tucked her hand into his arm and laughed. "They just wanted us to be happy – and we will be" she promised.

DI Humphrey Goodman, just back from his holiday, strolled up. To anyone who knew him, he had clearly made an effort to smarten up, but to Richard he merely looked dishevelled. Camille introduced him. The two men had not previously met and eyed each other warily. It had not taken more than a glance around the shack for Richard to realise that Humphrey was cut from a very different cloth. For his part, Humphrey had heard many stories about his predecessor's quirky behaviour. He waved what looked like the leg of a lobster at Richard.

"Congratulations, and all that. Do you fancy a beer?"

The two men moved off and Camille turned her attention to her mother, who was supervising the drinks, with the assistance of Jackson. Catherine was full of mixed emotions: joy at her daughter's happiness, tinged with sadness at the prospect of her imminent departure and a slight reservation about her choice of husband. But she was a positive person and was focusing her thoughts instead on the prospect of a grandchild.

"Where's Richard?" she asked.

"Oh he went off with Humphrey. I'm not sure where they … Oh I don't believe it! Look!"

Catherine followed her daughter's accusatory finger. There, floating in the bay, was the Roast Beef, with two very merry Detective Inspectors on board. Richard caught sight of her, raised his bottle in silent toast and waved. Humphrey said something and the two men collapsed into helpless laughter.

"I want a divorce!" announced Camille, hands on hips, when they eventually returned to shore. "We've only been married a couple of hours and you're already running off with another man! And anyway, what was so funny?"

The two men looked shifty and exchanged significant glances.

"Wouldn't you like to know!" teased Richard, ducking to avoid the flying vol au vent.

Catherine intervened. "Camille, you need to go and change." They were spending the night at a local hotel prior to flying off the next day.

"So, Richard" she said when they were alone and he had thanked her for her part in organising the day's events. "So you're taking my little girl away from me, away from the sunshine to cold and grey old England."

"The sun does shine some of the time" he objected mildly. "Look, Catherine" he added, emboldened by the several beers he had drunk, "I know I'm not your first choice as a husband for Camille, but I promise I'll look after her."

"No, perhaps not my _first_ choice" she replied, with a slightly wistful glance in the direction of DI Goodman, "but as soon as you came back I knew how it would be. I could see the difference in her immediately. Don't worry, Richard, I promise not to be the mother-in-law from hell, and I expect we'll rub along pretty well. All I want is for Camille to be happy."

"Then there's something we agree on. All I can say is that if she isn't, it won't be from want of trying on my part."

Catherine nodded approvingly and embraced him warmly on both cheeks. He told himself that he would just have to get used to such open displays of emotion now that he had married into a French family. He couldn't really imagine his own parents being so demonstrative when they met Camille for the first time – not that he had actually told them about her: he was going to surprise them and was keeping his fingers metaphorically very tightly crossed that it would go down well.

The festive mood was suddenly disrupted by a very loud bang. A gunshot! Both Richard and Humphrey immediately sprung into full detective mode and prepared to race to the scene of the supposed crime.

"Calm yourselves, gentlemen" called the Commissioner benignly, "If I am not very much mistaken I think you will find that was actually my official car backfiring. I'm afraid it needs a new exhaust."

Amid the amused laughter, Richard and Camille wandered into the shack seeking a last moment alone before they left for the hotel.

"You'd better say goodbye to Harry" she advised him. "She probably won't be here the next time you're on the island. Lizards don't live all that long, you know. Catch some bugs and I'll get some mango and maybe she'll make an appearance."

Harry had been nowhere to be seen all day, frightened by all the activity. But she found it impossible to resist the really large and juicy bugs which Richard caught for her and eventually made a cautious approach.

"Goodbye, Harry", he said, "and thank you for your company. You were my first friend on this island." He felt a little foolish, getting sentimental with a lizard, but Camille didn't seem to be laughing at him, so he continued. "I have to leave now, but I'll miss you, my little green friend."

Harry stared at him once more, twitched her tail and shot off back to her bolthole. Richard felt ridiculously sad for a moment but soon recovered when Camille slid her hand into his and pulled him away. It was time to go.

* * *

The following day the airport was crowded with the usual motley assortment of travellers: businessmen in suits, holidaymakers in shorts and local people carrying everything from surfboards to goats and chicken. Camille and Richard fought their way through the melee and checked in for their flight. This was the difficult part: saying goodbye to their friends and relations. Camille hugged Dwayne and Fidel tightly, with tears in her eyes. Her embrace with Catherine was wordless but prolonged. Richard turned to the two junior members of the team, with whom he had worked on so many cases, shook their hands warmly and then, throwing caution to the wind, hugged them both. They thumped him on the back.

"Goodbye, Chief, have a good flight and good luck in your new life."

"Goodbye, Sir. I learned such a lot from you and I'm so grateful for your help and encouragement."

Richard felt strangely emotional. These two men, so different from each other, had become more than work colleagues during the time he had spent on the island. They were his friends – and he felt a warm glow at the thought. He had never had friends before.

"It has been a pleasure and a privilege to work with you both" he said "and I will really miss you. But it's not for ever – I'm sure we shall be back to visit from time to time."

They were calling the flight. Another quick round of hugs and goodbyes and they were through the barrier, through the departure lounge and on to the plane. Richard reached for Camille's hand as the plane roared down the runway. He thought what a different person he was to the man who had first arrived on the island all that time ago and what a joyful future now lay before him.

"Thank you, Saint-Marie" he whispered under his breath.

The ground receded below them. They could see the island lying spread out beneath them, the green interior fringed with golden sands. The sky around and in front of them was cloudless and blue.


End file.
